If only, if only
by AGameOfFanfic
Summary: How Tyrion and Sansa's wedding night might have gone, and how their stories might have altered because of it. Show-verse. 16 chapters up, 20 more planned out so far through roughly beginning of s5 (plot changes, obviously). Yeah, this is gonna be a long one.
1. Sansa I

**Chapter 1, Sansa I**

Tyrion Lannister was indeed drunk, but not nearly as drunk as he'd pretended to be as he'd led Sansa out of the Great Hall and away from his family and the rest of the attendees at their wedding feast. Between Joffrey's threat to rape her and Tyrion's threat to geld him, Sansa still wasn't entirely sure how they'd managed to leave the feast without a bedding ceremony or even so much as a randy jape, but she was thankful for the reprieve, no matter how it came about.

He opened the door for her and bowed his head as she walked into his chambers before him. She took a shaky breath as she heard the door shut behind her. After a moment, she looked to him, waiting for whatever would come next, waiting for some sort of instruction, but nothing happened. With a deep breath, he turned his attention to a table across the room and made for it. There, he poured himself yet another cup of wine for the evening.

"Is that wise, my lord?" she asked him, finding her voice for the first time since speaking to Joffrey.

"Tyrion, Sansa," he slurred, still pouring wine to the top of his cup. "My name is Tyrion."

 _Of course. He's my husband now_. The thought didn't frighten her as much as she thought it should, but it wasn't particularly comforting, either. "Is that wise, Tyrion?" she asked again.

He put down the flagon and turned to her, cup of wine raised in hand. "Nothing was ever wiser," he answered in a sing-song tone. He turned to the chaise by the table and sat on the end of it. For what seemed like the longest time, he simply stared at her. She wished he would say something, for she had no idea what he might want to hear. She looked around the room, looking anywhere but the bed or her husband, hoping to find something to strike up an innocent conversation on, but her mind was blank as she took in the Lannister crimson and gold furnishings and tapestries that decorated her lord husband's chambers.

"Astoundingly long," he said after a long silence.

"What?"

"Neck. You have one," he added in a half-whisper, pointing to her. She didn't know what to say to that. Thank you? Should she comment on him? No, she didn't think he'd like that at all...

He made to take another drink of wine, but before the cup reached his lips, he lowered it again. "How old are you, exactly?"

She swallowed before answering. "Fourteen."

His eyes widened at her answer and his face fell, and she wondered if she'd said something wrong, or said it in the wrong tone.

He shook his head and looked down. "Well, talk won't make you any older." _He's ashamed_ , Sansa realized. She'd heard of his reputation, the Imp, the pervert; he'd made it clear he didn't ask for this marriage, but Sansa hadn't considered that he would mind her being too young. The way Shae had made it sound when she'd spoken with her about Petyr Baelish, Sansa had assumed men preferred women as young as possible, so long as they'd flowered.

Tyrion stood then. He put on a bravado, cup of wine still in hand. "My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage." She knew he meant to turn the words into a joke, to know he didn't want to do this, and she believed in that, but it didn't change their meaning. It didn't ease the butterflies flitting about her belly.

His words from earlier in the day echoed to her _. "Do you drink wine?"_ Sansa looked to her husband, still waiting on her for a reaction to his pronouncement, then took a few steps to the table and poured herself a cup of wine to match her husband's. As Sansa drank, she saw out the corner of her eye as Tyrion lifted his glass in mock toast with her. Sansa set her cup down, and Tyrion drained the rest of his.

She didn't look at him. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not any of it. Not Joffrey, not the wedding, not him, not the feast, none of it. But her mother's words came back to her, her Septa's words about how she would do her duty. With a deep breath, she turned away from her husband and went to the bedside. Hands shaking, she began to undress for him.

First was the neckpiece. She fumbled at the ties; the queen had lent Sansa some of her own handmaidens to help her prepare for her wedding, and one of them rather than Shae had done the laces tighter than Sansa was used to. But eventually her fingertips pried away the knots, one by one, and the metal and silk piece came away from her neck and waist. She lay it to the side and began working at the laces to her gown. One lace at a time, that's all she thought of. Any thought of Tyrion, or what was to come, and her fingers started to quiver uselessly. The laces, that's all there was in this moment.

Finally, the laces were done, and her gown came free. Nervously, she opened it wide, pushed it down her shoulders, and pulled it away from her. She carefully folded the gown over in two and laid it aside with the neckpiece. Next, she quickly nudged off her doe skin slippers, the last easy part. She took a deep breath before tucking her fingers under the shoulder of her shift. Just as she started to push it off of herself, Tyrion said firmly, but not unkindly, "Stop."

She put the strap of her shift back in place before turning to him. "My lord?" she asked before remembering she should call him by his name now.

He was close, only a few steps away. She hadn't heard him approach, but she blushed at how obvious it was that he'd been watching her disrobe.

He screwed his eyes shut and looked down. For a moment, Sansa pitied him. _He really doesn't want to do this,_ she thought. _No more than I do_. After all she'd been through, she never would have thought she'd share sympathies with a Lannister, but here they both were, and sympathy was the only word to describe her feelings for both of them forced into this marriage of duty.

Eventually, he looked back up at her before taking slow steps toward her. Sansa took a sharp breath, involuntarily, and she knew he'd seen it. He frowned, but continued toward her. When he stood at her side, however, he looked down, pulled a stool out from under the bed with his toe, stepped upon it, then sat on the high bed, facing her, his eyes level with hers.

"May I take down your hair, Sansa?" he asked, his voice soft. Sansa looked in his eyes, and there was no malice, just a gentle questioning. Slowly, she nodded, and she turned her back toward him. As his fingers gently took up one of the two braids that tumbled down her back, gooseflesh prickled at the back of her neck, but she ignored it. She felt him carefully unweave the braid up to the base of her neck, run his fingers through the freed strands of hair, then move on to the second braid. When those were done, his fingertips moved to the braids atop her head, more intricate than the first two. Tenderly, he unwrapped braid after braid, untying ribbons and taking out pins. Only a few times did he tug on a strand by accident, and every incident was promptly followed with a softly murmured apology. When asked, she turned her head to the left and right to ease his task, and finally, she tilted her head back for him to unweave the last large braid at the top of her crown. When it was loose, his hand gently guided her neck to straighten. Her scalp twinged at the freedom, and she gave a soft, "Thank you."

For the longest time, Tyrion simply ran his fingers through her hair. He hadn't seemed that drunk when he approached her, but maybe he was. She'd seen Robb and Jon and Theon do plenty of stupid things when drinking. Robb had spent almost an hour after the feast at Winterfell for the royal family just scratching Grey Wind's ears because he thought they looked funny that evening. The memory almost made her chuckle, but she hadn't completely forgotten where she was. But whether Tyrion was drunk, thinking, or simply enjoyed her hair, she didn't particularly mind. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was home, and it was her mother's fingers brushing through her hair rather than her Lannister husband's.

His hands gathered up her hair then, and gently moved her tresses over her shoulder. He hesitated a moment before placing his hands softly on her shoulders. She took a breath, but his touch was light, gentler than she had any right to expect. At first, he simply rubbed light circles into her shoulders with his thumbs, but then he began to knead her shoulders tenderly.

"Relax, Sansa," he told her quietly, and she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Until he'd started to work on her shoulders, she hadn't realized how tense she was. "What was my promise to you this afternoon, before I took you to Baelor's for our wedding?"

Sansa thought back to earlier in the day; it seemed so long ago already. "You promised you wouldn't ever hurt me."

"Do you believe me?"

Sansa recalled his behavior toward her since he'd arrived at King's Landing: offering his condolences for her father's death; rescuing her from the beating by the Kingsguard; making sure she was alright after the riot in Fleabottom; seeing after her before the Battle of the Blackwater. Whenever they'd shared words at feasts or dinners, he'd always spoken kindly to her. Even when he told her she was to be wed to him, he broke the news as gently as he could. And now, when he could have let her be stripped of her clothes in the bedding ceremony and taken her maidenhead as soon as they entered the bedchamber, he had instead protected her dignity and modesty in front of the court, and then gently touched her, soothed her, tried his best to relax her. "Yes, my lord. I believe you."

She felt him edge forward on the bed, and his knees brushed against her hips on either side. She gave a quiet gasp at being so close to him, so close to a man. Her mind reeled back to that alley in Fleabottom, when that man had struck her to the ground and sat atop her, laid his filthy, stinking weight on her and whispered in her ear, _"You ever been fucked, little girl?"_

Sansa lurched forward out of Tyrion's grasp and wrapped her arms around herself, holding herself as her heart pounded with the memory. She felt like she was gasping for air.

"Sansa?" She heard him get down from the bed, but he didn't touch her. "Did I do something wrong?"

After a moment, she shook her head and turned back to him. He stood on the footstool, still level with her, his face drawn in concern.

"Forgive me, my lord," she said, her voice coming back to her. "I had a bad memory."

"Of what, if I might ask?" Concern was writ on his features, and a frown tugged down the corners of his lips.

"The riot."

He nodded. "Clegane told me you were attacked, but that you weren't hurt."

Sansa nodded. "Even so, it still gives me bad dreams sometimes."

"I have nightmares from it as well, every now and then." He gave her a sympathetic smile and reached out for her. Slowly, she took his hand and stepped back to him. "Sansa... if you're not ready for this tonight, we can wait."

Sansa thought he was sincere, but she shook her head. "I can do my duty. It was... it was just a moment, my lord."

He looked at her carefully, looking for something in her face, before he gave a small nod and looked down at their hands. Her right hand lay in his, and he covered it with his left, gently rubbing the back of her hand before moving it up her arm to cup her elbow. She stepped closer to him and stood only inches apart. His hand wandered up her arm to her shoulder, then across her collarbone until it reached her necklace. His brow furrowed.

"Where is this necklace from?"

Sansa looked down and remembered what she'd worn. "King Joffrey gave it to me when I was his betrothed," she said softly. "It's the nicest I own, so the queen thought I should wear it."

At that, a frown came to his lips. His hand released hers, and he reached up to the chain. Gently, he pulled the chain around until the clasp was in the front, and he undid the necklace and unceremoniously tossed it to the bedside table. "In the morning, I'll give you a new necklace my wretched nephew hasn't touched, and a dozen more after that if you like. Would that please you?"

A smirk played at his lips, and Sansa mirrored him as she nodded. She didn't care about the necklaces, exactly, but she enjoyed the way he'd said "wretched nephew."

"Good. Joffrey can't touch you now. I promise you that, I won't ever let him hurt you again." Sansa thought back to Joffrey's threat and wondered if the door was bolted. But she wouldn't let Tyrion see her uncertainty. She wouldn't show any Lannister her fear, not anymore, no matter who it was or what their intentions were.

His eyes fell to her neckline, and Sansa saw him sway a bit as he stood on the stool. "You really are stunningly beautiful, Sansa."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Tyrion," he corrected.

"Tyrion," she said, and he closed his eyes for a moment as she said it.

When he opened them again, the green in them looked darker, smokier somehow. It gave her a queer feeling in her belly, but she didn't shy away from it. "Close your eyes, Sansa," he commanded softly, and she complied.

She focused on her breathing, his, as his hands met hers again at her sides. But he didn't take her hands. Instead, he let his fingertips dance across the skin on the back of her hands. It tickled a bit, but it made her more anxious than anything. They were fleeting touches, and they made her shiver in... what, trepidation? Anticipation? She wasn't really sure. His fingers trailed up her arms then around her shoulders to her neckline.

Her lips opened in a soft gasp as his fingertips found a path to the tops of her breasts that peeked out of her shift. Her eyes opened, and she looked into his and saw hunger, concern, lust, guilt, hesitation. His fingers stilled on her chest, and she realized he was silently asking permission. She gave a small nod, and his hands trailed up to her shoulders and gently pushed the straps away from her shoulders. Softly, the linen dragged down her arms, over her breasts, and came to a rest above her hips.

Instinctively, she made to cover her exposed breasts, but Tyrion's hands caught her wrists. Sansa felt like a child in her modesty, but Tyrion simply turned her palms upward and kissed them each as he sat back down on the bed behind him, pulling her forward with him. Gently, he guided her hands to rest on top of the blankets on either side of him. She pressed her palms into the bedding, and Tyrion took her face in his hands.

"You're beautiful, Sansa," he whispered huskily. "Please don't ever hide that from me." His fingers brushed over her cheekbones before he leaned forward and kissed one cheek softly, then the other. Her breathing hitched as she realized he would kiss her lips now. They'd kissed during their wedding ceremony, but that had been quick; Sansa had been so nervous about all of it that that kiss had been over before she'd even registered it.

He looked into her eyes for a moment, and Sansa felt her lips part in anticipation. Gentle as a whisper, he pressed his mouth to hers, and Sansa closed her eyes. It was soft; Tyrion's kiss was sweet, not the hard, pressured things Joffrey had forced on her after her father had been killed. Her stomach fluttered. _This is the Imp!_ Sansa tried to remind herself, but with his lips slowly moving with hers, tenderly brushing against her mouth, with her skin tingling as his hands slid from her face to her neck to her shoulders to the sides of her breasts, finally coming to a stop at the curve of her waist, she couldn't think of him as the Imp, as a Lannister, as anything other than the man who had protected her for no reason other than to keep her safe, the man who was making her feel all these new and strange feelings, the man who was now her husband, and would be for the rest of her life. Sansa had been resigned to their marriage ever since he'd told her of it weeks past, had tried to find any way to live with it. Now, however... if he was this gentle a husband in everything, she might one day find happiness, just as Margaery had suggested.

He withdrew from her, and she opened her eyes again. "Are you alright?" he asked, and she nodded. His gaze raked across her, up and down, and again she wanted to cover herself, but she kept her palms on either side of him where he'd placed them. She was his wife, and this was what he wanted of her. She could do this; she could do her duty to him.

His lips returned to hers, this time with more urgency. He was still gentle, but Sansa could feel a need from him that had been restrained before now.

"Touch me," he whispered between kisses, and Sansa started. Touch his manhood, or... ? "Hold me, Sansa, please," he whispered again when she hadn't moved. Hesitantly, Sansa brought her hands up to his shoulders, and he groaned into their kiss. His tongue danced across her lips, and his hands pulled her closer, wrapping tight around her waist as he drew their bodies together. Taking his lead, Sansa wrapped her arms about his neck, and he groaned again. His hands danced up and down her sides, and she could feel his fingers splayed out to take in as much of her skin at once as he could.

Sansa tried to regain control of her breathing, but it was no use; she was gasping for air around Tyrion's kisses. One of his hands went to the back of her head, his fingers tangling into her hair, and her breath hitched at the sensation. There was a tense coil of something deep in Sansa's belly, and Sansa shifted her hips instinctually, trying to alleviate it, but all she managed to do was grind herself against Tyrion where his legs had parted to allow her between them, eliciting a groan from her husband at the contact. Tyrion's hand in her hair tilted her head to the side, and his mouth left hers to trail kisses along her jaw. "Sansa," he whispered in her ear, and she shuddered at the sound. The coiling in Sansa's belly intensified, and her mouth opened to let an involuntary moan escape.

Tyrion's breath left her ear, and he began to run kisses down her neck to her collarbones, his hands placed on the sides of her breasts, until finally, his lips came to her breasts. He was hunched over, and he looked up at her, the same look in his eyes as when he'd paused before letting the top of her shift down. She nodded her permission, and without delay he took one of her nipples into his mouth. Sansa's head fell back, and she let out a soft cry at the sensation. Never had she ever imagined anything could feel like this. Tyrion's fingertips played at the nipple not occupied by his lips and tongue, and Sansa was nearly overwrought with the feeling.

"This feels good to you, Sansa?" she heard his voice ask as if from far away, and she brought her head back upright and tried to regain some semblance of composure as she met his gaze. She didn't trust her tongue to make coherent words, so she merely nodded. The corner of Tyrion's mouth lifted at that, but Sansa could tell by the wrinkling at the corners of his eyes that he was holding in a bigger smile than what he let on. His eyes were soft as he regarded her. "I really do want to please you, Sansa. You deserve better than me, but I will always do my best to please you, in everything."

Before she could reply with courtesies to insist politely that he was a lord, that he was deserving of her, and that she was honored to be his wife, the kinds of things she'd be expected to say under normal conditions, he turned to her other breast and paid it the same attentions, and Sansa's words were lost in the melee of sucking and licking and wetness that Tyrion placed upon her.

His hands trailed down to her shift, and she looked at him and simply nodded before he'd asked, and Sansa saw a smirk on his lips as he took to her breast again while his fingers worked at the ties holding her shift in place. In moments, the garment dropped to Sansa's feet, and she was naked save for her smallclothes.

Tyrion's lips remained on her breasts, placing wet kisses between them as his hands trailed from her belly down her navel to the hem and laces of her smallclothes that hung from her hips. His fingers trailed lazily from side to side, and her breath hitched every time he put pressure on her hip bones. The coiling in her belly was almost unbearable, and a soft whimper escaped her. "Please," she whispered, so softly she wasn't sure he'd heard, but his lips left her breast, and she felt him look up at her as her head still lolled back from the overwhelming sensations he was putting her body through. She didn't even know what she was begging for—more? A different touch? To stop? She was clueless as to what she wanted, but all she knew was the tension in her belly had traveled to her woman's parts, and it was equal measures of pain and pleasure, and she couldn't bear it as it was any longer.

"Sansa," Tyrion murmured, and he straightened, taking her head in his hands, and she focused her eyes on him. His lips were parted and red and wet, and his eyes were dark with lust. "Trade places with me, my lady."

The words didn't make sense until he stood and stepped away from the bed. He took her hand and led her to sit where he had. "Lie back, Sansa," he commanded gently, and she leaned back onto the bed slowly until her head was on the soft blankets that covered what would soon be their marriage bed. His fingers undid the laces of her underclothes, and then he looked at her again. "Would you lift your hips for me?"

Sansa nodded and complied, and in one smooth motion, Tyrion wrapped his fingers around the top of her small clothes and pulled them gently away from her womanhood and down her legs and over her ankles and feet, and then they were gone. She was entirely naked in front of her husband, and all she could think about was the unbearable tension between her legs that begged for release.

"Do you trust me, Sansa?" he asked as he looked down on her from his bedside footstool.

"Yes, my lord," she told him. She didn't think a nod would suffice to answer that question.

"Open your legs for me."

She'd thought the bedding would take place in the bed, and he would have unclothed, as her mother and septa had told her that much about the wedding night and what happened in a marriage bed, but maybe he was different, because he was a dwarf? She wasn't sure, but she complied with her lord husband's wishes in any case. She opened her knees and closed her eyes. She felt him take her ankles softly in hand and moved them so her feet rested on the edge of the bed just wide of her hips. He shuffled, and Sansa prepared herself for the breaking of her maidenhead, but then she felt his lips at her knees, and her eyes fluttered open. His fingers trailed up and down her calves as he placed kisses and licks along her knees and inner thighs, up and down, teasing and taunting. Ready as she was, the coiled tension had sparked a flame that burned hot as wildfire within her, and she whimpered and squirmed under his ministrations.

"Relax, Sansa," he said with a mischievous smile as he knelt on the stool, bringing his face level with her womanhood.

"What are you—?" she began to ask, but as he placed his lips upon her there, a primal moan wrought from her lips, and there wasn't a thing in this world she cared for so long as he didn't stop until the fire inside her was quenched.


	2. Tyrion I

**Chapter 2, Tyrion I**

 _Gods, she tastes so sweet._ As Tyrion knelt between his lady wife's legs, one knee on the padded stool and one foot on the ground to balance himself, he found he was losing himself to everything about her: her innocence, her softness, her smell, her taste. Everything about her was everything he'd ever wanted in a wife and everything he thought he'd never have.

Tyrion wrapped his arms under her legs and around her hips as his lips nuzzled on that delicious pink pressure point that had Sansa breathing in fits and starts. He sucked at her and watched as her chest and cheeks flushed to the same pink of the flesh he was lapping at, the same rosy hue of her delicate nipples he'd just paid such attentions to. From the moment he'd resigned himself, and Sansa, that his father would get his way and they would wed, he'd known she'd be beautiful under all those pretty silk gowns she wore. The beautiful auburn hair, bright blue eyes, fair, porcelain skin, rosy lips, stunning features—oh yes, there'd been much to recommend Sansa's beauty, not a man in the Seven Kingdoms would deny that.

What he hadn't anticipated, however, was her reaction to him. Sansa dreamed of gallant and handsome princes and knights; no little girl dreamed of men like him. And true enough, she had been hesitant in the beginning. But somewhere along the line, between his letting down her hair and his kisses, he knew she'd started to feel something. He was used to these reactions from whores—fantasy and sex is what they were paid for, after all. Even Shae, he thought with not a little guilt. But Sansa... this sweet young maiden was the first woman he'd been with who hadn't been a whore in some fashion, and her responses were more raw and visceral than any he'd had before. No, she wasn't screaming out his name in ecstasy, but her shuddered breathing, her flush, her wetness, her bitten and swollen lips, her soft, whimpering cries of pleasure were all unpracticed, unrehearsed, all so new to the both of them that they left him in awe. He loved Shae, he truly did, but gods he hadn't felt like this with a woman since Tysha.

He shook away the thought as he continued to lap at Sansa's sweet and salty cunt. Tysha had been a whore, just like all the others, even if he hadn't known it at the time. Sansa... Sansa was no whore. And this? Her moans and sighs and whimpers at his touch? These were no lies. This was all new for her, and he would draw out every last bit of pleasure he could for her. He wasn't sure there would be much else she could enjoy about having him as her husband, but he would see that she could enjoy this.

He nuzzled his nose deeper into the thatch of auburn that obscured her sex as his tongue flicked at that center of nerves that sent Sansa's hips bucking and grinding harder into his lips. Tyrion would be a liar if he said he weren't feeling possessive of her right now. Her wetness was so sweet and salty and pure and he was the only one who had ever tasted her, who had ever seen her like this, touched her like this, made her moan and quiver and wet like this. His eyes drifted shut as he breathed in scented air filtered through her pubic hair and gripped his fingers a bit tighter around her hips.

Out of nowhere, her fingers gripped into his hair, and his eyes burst open in surprise. As soon as her sky blue gaze met his, her fingers untangled from his hair and she started to draw her hand back as if in fear, but Tyrion reached out for her wrist and guided it back to his head. Her fingers slowly, carefully entwined into his curls again, and Tyrion's eyes rolled back at the sensation, and he groaned into his wife's cunt. The vibration of his groan on her clit drew a hiss from her, and her fingers gripped into his hair, forcing him ever closer to her. His weight was already leaned on the side of the bed. If she pulled him in any closer to her, he might end up back in the womb. _Well, father did want a Lannister in Sansa's belly, after all..._

Tyrion had hoped to bring her to finish just from this, but as much as he could tell she was enjoying his touch and tongue, she was still tense, though whether from nerves or fear of the pain that was to come, he wasn't sure. In either case, his own arousal was becoming painful for want of being inside her. He continued lapping at his wife as he withdrew one hand from her hips and reached down to loosen the laces of his breeches. His cock wasn't out; he didn't know how Sansa would react to him pulling on his manhood as his tongue was up her cunt, but at least the undone laces alleviated some of the strain.

Knowing this might be awkward for her, he decided to warn her first. "Sansa, my dear," he said, the endearment rolling off his tongue before he could stop it.

"Tyrion?" she answered in a half-whimper. The sound of his name on her aroused lips was almost enough to be his undoing.

"I'm going to put my fingers inside you. It'll help you prepare for later." Tysha had cried out in such pain when he'd taken her maidenhead; only much later had he learned from a whore in Lannisport how to stretch a maiden with the fingers to minimize the pain of a breaking maidenhead. The whore had recounted her own first time as they'd talked over wine before laying together when Tyrion had been fool enough to ask how one becomes a whore. But if he could spare Sansa even a little of the pain he'd unintentionally bestowed upon Tysha, he would do it.

Sansa nodded, though she looked apprehensive. Tyrion put his index finger in his mouth and wetted it thoroughly before removing it and returning his lips to Sansa's rosy pink nub. She moaned at the renewed suckling, but as Tyrion's finger touched at her opening, he felt her legs tense on either side of his head.

"Relax, Sansa," he reminded her, his voice low. "Please, relax."

Her hand fell from his hair to lay on her stomach, and Tyrion reached out his left hand to cover it. She looked at him, and a faint smile flicked across her lips. He gently soothed her hand as he continued to suckle at her core, and his fingertip slowly pressed into her. Gods she was tight, even around only one finger. His cock twitched at the thought of how tight she'd be around him, how good it would feel to be inside her. He watched as her breathing hitched and her eyes widened at the sensation of his finger filling her up.

"How does that feel?" he asked. He kissed her inner thighs as she considered her words. He didn't move his finger, just left it inside her to get used to. It was odd for him; habit urged him to put a second finger in, to pump in and out as he sucked at her clit, but she wasn't ready for that yet.

"It feels... odd, but I think I'm fine." Sansa wasn't looking at him as she answered, but at the canopy of their bed. He knew that, after all the build up and kissing and teasing, this was hardly the romantic prelude for losing her maidenhead, but Tyrion was loathe to hurt her. He could have gone straight from sucking her clit to bedding her, but she would have had more pain, and Tyrion refused to inflict any more pain on this sweet young thing than what she'd already suffered.

Tyrion moved his finger out, then in again, and started fucking her slowly with his finger. "And this?"

Sansa's chest rose as she took a deep breath before answering. "It's a bit… strange, but I'm fine."

Tyrion frowned. If this was strange, how would two fingers feel to her, let alone his cock? Shame washed over him again as he thought of what he was about to do. She was a child. Flowered and stunning and his, yes, but still a child, no matter what his father or sister said.

But at the same time, she wasn't a child. The way she responded to him, to his touches—those weren't the responses of a child. He had to stop seeing her as the little girl he saw at Winterfell, as the beautiful, miserable thing at his nephew's side during his nameday celebrations. Sansa had grown so much just in the months since he'd returned to King's Landing. Even if she had been a child then, she wasn't now. She could do this, she was willing to do her duty. He would do his, as well.

"Have you ever touched yourself, Sansa?" he asked before pressing his lips back to her sensitive nub, his finger still working slowly in and out of her sweet cunt.

"It's not ladylike," she answered. Except she hadn't really.

"I didn't ask if it was ladylike, I asked if you'd done it," he told her with a grin. She blushed from breasts to cheeks as she realized her courteous non-answer hadn't fooled him. "You can tell me the truth, Sansa. I'm just curious." _The gods know I'm not one to judge pleasing oneself; my hand knows my cock better than my tongue knows food._

"Um, not like this," she admitted. "Only... only ever touching where you're kissing."

He pulled his lips away and reached his thumb up to press light circles on her clit. "Like this?" Sansa nodded. "And which do you prefer?"

Sansa swallowed. "Your way is better." Tyrion smiled as he put his lips back to his wife's flesh.

After a while, it seemed she had relaxed a bit with one finger, and so Tyrion prepared for two fingers. "Sansa, I'm going to put another finger inside you. This might feel rather tight, but I need you to stay relaxed, alright?"

She nodded, but didn't say anything. Despite his request, he could feel her tense up ever so slightly around the one finger that was still inside her. Without delay, without giving her too much time to think on it, he drew his hand to his mouth, wet his middle finger, then slowly inserted them both inside her.

She hissed, her hips bucked, and her right foot slipped off the edge of the bed, but Tyrion caught her leg with his left arm and continued the smooth entrance inside her; he didn't want her to jerk and have him tear her maidenhead this way. He placed her leg over his shoulder, left arm still wrapped around her thigh. He kissed her legs up and down as his fingers rested inside her. "Relax, Sansa," he urged her. Minutes passed by as he did nothing but kiss her legs, rub circles into the thigh that rested on his shoulder, and little by little, he could feel Sansa's maidenhead stretching to accommodate his fingers.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I'm okay," she told him, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "It's tight, and it was uncomfortable at first, but I'm fine now, my lord."

Tyrion chuckled quietly. Only Sansa could be sprawled out naked in bed, have her leg on his shoulder and two of his fingers up her twat, and still be formal enough to call him her lord.

Slowly, he started to move his fingers out of her, then back in. She squirmed a bit at the in-out motion, but she also let out a moan.

"Does that feel good, Sansa?"

"No... yes. I don't know."

"There's pleasure with the pain?" he asked, and she nodded.

Good. All women were different, but most he'd fucked were close to indifferent on having a cock in them. Sure, they'd moan and tell him they loved it, but between their put-on exclamations, he'd catch glimpses of boredom, counting down the thrusts til he was done. Sansa... if she was the type of woman who truly enjoyed the feeling of being filled... gods he wanted inside her. Now.

He tried to rein in his lust and keep his gentle composure with her. He withdrew his fingers from her; they were so wet. "Sansa, go on and lie properly in the bed for me. I'll put the candles out."

She swallowed nervously, but nodded and did as she was told. She sat up before crawling toward the pillows at the head of their large bed. He put his fingers in his mouth and sucked her salty wetness off of them, then gathered up the ribbons and pins that he'd taken out of her hair and took them to the table before he went around the room, blowing out the candles. As he approached the bed again, only the candles by the sides of the bed were lit, and it was dim enough; he hoped she wouldn't mind them. He was well aware there wasn't much for her to look at abed, but for him... he'd fuck Sansa under a sunny sky just to see her all the better if he could.

Sansa had pulled the bed sheet up around her. Northern modesty, through and through. Her mother had been born in the Riverlands, but when Tyrion had been her prisoner, Catelyn Stark had been just as modest on the road, even as they'd made camp at streams and gullies. He never could have imagined as he'd tried to get a peek at the auburn she-wolf that he'd end up wedding and bedding her daughter.

A pang of guilt coursed through him as he thought of how much Lady Stark loved her children, how much she would grieve over her eldest daughter being wed to the Lannister Imp she so hated, but Tyrion knew he would, and could, never hurt Sansa, not in the way Catelyn Stark might imagine him to be cruel. He wasn't the monster everyone thought he was. Maybe he couldn't prove it to them, but he would do his damnedest to prove it to Sansa.

He went to the table and quickly poured and downed a glass of water, and then another. As his father would say, he needed to be able to perform, and he wanted to last for her, to give her the pleasure she deserved for being forced to marry him, of all people.

He undressed on the side of the bed opposite Sansa, and she stared up at the canopy. Even from here, he could tell she was nervous for what would happen next. He could only imagine how anxious she'd be if he hadn't tried so hard to relax and calm her. He just didn't want to hurt her. Above all, he didn't want to cause her more pain.

His cock sprang free from his breeches as he pushed them down and stepped out of them. He felt like an animal as he was finally disrobed, his cock leading him toward the bed to claim his prize, to claim his wife's maidenhead. He climbed under the covers with Sansa and moved until he was next to her. He could feel the heat of her body next to his under the bed sheet, see the outline of her body, even see the peaks of where her nipples were still so hard. Without asking as he should have, he pulled the sheet down and took a nipple into his mouth, moaning into her breast. Sansa moaned with him, and he moved closer. He lay flush against her side, his cock pressed against her thigh. He heard her gasp, and he wasn't sure if it was something his mouth did, or simply the fact of feeling a cock against her for the first time. Tyrion tended to favor the latter.

He put his hand between her legs, and she opened them for him without hesitation. He smiled against her breast for that as he circled her clit. He moved to nibble at her collarbone, and her breath hitched. He looked up to see her eyes closed, her lips open, cheeks and chest flushed pink.

 _She's the Maiden made flesh,_ Tyrion thought to himself. _And mine_. Tyrion had never thought himself much of a brute, but gods he wanted to claim her for his own, and no other. _I am hers, and she is mine,_ he thought absentmindedly. Gently, he pulled back the covers as he carefully moved between her legs. Her eyes were open again, on him as he took his place. One at a time, Tyrion lifted her legs to cradle him, and he kissed her knees and inner thighs again. She watched him as he knelt between her legs, and for a moment Tyrion was the one with the urge to cover himself. He paid whores for a reason; he didn't particularly care what they thought of him so long as they at least pretended to enjoy his company. Sansa though...

Sansa reached her hand up, and Tyrion's heart stopped in his chest. Her fingers brushed against his stomach with a featherlight touch before taking his hand that still rested atop her knee.

He followed her touch, his eyes locked onto her hooded sky blue gaze, taking her hand and letting it guide him to lay on top of her. The moment he felt her pert breasts against his chest, he groaned, let his weight fall upon her, and he wrapped his arms under her shoulders, buried his head at the crook of her neck, and just rested there for a moment. Her breasts, her taut stomach, her hot, wet, tight cunt, her soft skin, her beautiful auburn hair, on her head and between her legs... _Gods, she's perfect._ So soft, and smooth, and warm, and _his_.

His cock twitched as it pressed against her warm, damp womanhood, but he felt how tense Sansa was under his body. He propped himself up on his elbows, attempting to taking his weight off her, but with his shortened arms, there was only so much he could do.

He nuzzled at her neck, trailing licks and kisses up and down, and he felt her breathing hitch as her chest moved underneath him. "Relax, my dear. I don't want this to hurt anymore than it has to." His voice wavered at that, and he hoped she knew how sincere he was. None of the rest of his family would have given a damn how much pain Robb Stark's little sister endured in the marriage bed, not after his rebellion had led to the death or capture of so many of his kin, but Tyrion couldn't lay that blame at Sansa's feet, no more than her father's death could be laid at his.

He turned his head to kiss her on the cheek, and she turned to look at him. With shaky breath and parted lips, she simply nodded, and Tyrion claimed her lips, the last kiss she would have as a maiden. He shifted his weight to his left, and with his right hand free, he reached down between them to grasp his cock. Sansa let out a gasp as he ran the tip of his swollen manhood up and down between her slick lips to wet his cock in her arousal.

He was breathing heavily as he looked into Sansa's eyes. There was an ounce of fear in them, but no more than that. The girl was brave. Or she actually trusted him. The way she was looking at him, he truly wasn't sure which it was, if not both. He licked his lips as he felt her wetness surround the tip of his cock, and he slowly eased himself in until he met the tightness of her maidenhead. Slowly, he pushed his hips forward, and he felt as her maidenhead tore around him. Sansa looked away from him then, eyes shut in pain as she gave a whimper in the back of her throat. The sound nearly broke Tyrion's heart, but he couldn't stop. It would be worse if he stopped now. Best to get all the pain out of the way at once. He kept going, eliciting cries as her maidenhead continued to tear as his cock slowly stretched her in ways and places she'd likely never contemplated before. Finally, after what seemed like agonizing hours of having to put his sweet child bride through misery, he was fully sheathed inside her.

He felt her warm wetness clench and swell around him. He knew he shouldn't enjoy the sensation, that it was her body's reaction to the pain, but gods she was so tight around his cock he could barely think straight. Gods, he couldn't remember any woman ever feeling this good around his cock, not even Tysha. The impulse to pound in and out of her was almost more than he could resist, but he focused on nothing but her: her breathing, her whimpers, her sighs, her twitches, her fidgets and shifts of her hips against his. Her hands were clawed into the bed linens under them, and her eyes were still shut.

"Sansa?" Tyrion whispered at last, finally in control of himself. "My lady, are you alright?"

Sansa took a breath before opening her eyes, but still she didn't look at him. Only at the red velvet canopy above them. "The pain is subsiding, my lord." So formal, so hurt. A part of Tyrion wanted to pull out and be done with it; he'd done the job of taking her maidenhead, of confirming their marriage. But the greater, more selfish part of him wanted to see it through, to finish bedding her, to spill his seed inside her and claim her as his, and only his.

"That's the worst of it, Sansa, I promise. It'll never hurt like that again, not after this time." He buried his face at her neck again, breathing in the faint smell of her, willing her to understand how much he wished he never had to hurt her, not even for this. Joffrey and his sister had put her through enough for a lifetime; he had no desire to add to any of it.

He felt her head turn towards him, and he looked up at her. There was one tear of pain rolling down her cheek, but otherwise she looked fine. Tyrion kissed away the tear, and she gave a faint smile. Hopefully, he kissed her lips, and he tasted the salt of the teardrop mingled with her sweet mouth. When she pulled back, he asked, "Are you ready for me to continue?"

She nodded, and Tyrion let out a deep breath. Sansa squirmed as he drew his length almost all the way out of her, and then slowly back in again, but after the first few strokes, she seemed at ease. He kissed her on the lips for a while until his lust got the better of him, and he could think of nothing but his thrusts and how good she felt around him, that delicious pressure on the tip of his cock as he reached deeper inside his wife with every stroke. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to her shoulder, and for a moment, there were only three things in the world: his cock; her hot, tight, wet cunt; and the pleasure that grew every time he plunged into her, over and over and over again...

Suddenly, Sansa whimpered not in pleasure but in pain, and everything came to a shuddering stop for Tyrion as his eyes snapped open and his hips jerked to a halt.

"Sansa?" he asked, panicked that he'd hurt her. Her face was turned toward him, but her eyes were closed, and she was chewing on her lip. Only then, as he felt the burn in his hips and thighs, did he realize how hard he must have been thrusting into her. "Oh gods, Sansa, I'm so sorry. I lost control. Sansa, are you hurt? Do you wish to stop?"

He prepared to pull out of her when she didn't answer right away, but then she shook her head. "No, my lord, I'm fine. Just... perhaps more gently, like you were in the beginning, if we could?" He could tell she was uncertain if she was even allowed to ask something like that. Whatever had been told to her about bedding, he'd need to teach her anew in future; he fully intended to share equally in the pleasure of their marriage bed. This was not for him and him alone, not with her, not with his lady.

Tyrion closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment, silently thanking the seven that he apparently hadn't hurt her too much. "Of course. Yes, gently. I swear it." He looked back up, and Sansa's lips were right there. He kissed her, and she kissed him back, more passionately than he would have expected given that he'd just pained her. He resumed his thrusts, slower and more controlled this time, all the while savoring Sansa's lips.

"Hold me, Sansa, please." He didn't like to beg, but her hands were down at her sides, fingers dug into the sheets, and he wanted nothing more in this moment than to hold and be held by Sansa Stark. Almost as if she'd been waiting for permission, her arms reached up and wrapped around his shoulders, clinging to him as she kissed him, and her warmth enveloped him in every way possible, making him almost delirious as he thrusted into her again.

As he continued, he became aware of her panting, and he broke off their kisses in time to hear a moan escape the back of her throat.

"Does that feel good, Sansa?" he asked, concentrating on keeping his strokes even and steady for her.

She simply nodded her head as it lolled back on the the pillows. Her eyes were half-shut, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. As he kept going, determined to give her pleasure this evening, her whimpers grew louder. But Tyrion felt his own pleasure, that familiar tension just behind his balls, trying to break through as well. He couldn't hold off for her much longer; she felt so good, it was a miracle he'd lasted as long as he had already.

"Sansa, I'm going to touch you while I'm inside you," he told her, reaching a hand down between them.

"My lord?" Her eyes opened to look at him, but his hand was already on her wetted sensitive spot, rubbing little circles, and she let out a cry louder than any before.

"It's going to be intense, but I need you to relax and enjoy it, Sansa. Please don't fight it." _Oh gods, please don't fight it, Sansa. I won't last much longer._

He buried his head at the crook of her neck and closed his eyes; if he watched her, he was done for. _Focus on her, focus on keeping your thrusts even. That's it. You'll get your pleasure when she does_ , Tyrion told himself, determined to give his beautiful child bride pleasure on her wedding night.

Sansa's breaths became more and more labored, and where she'd merely whimpered before, every stroke now elicited its own cry of pleasure, each louder than the prior. The walls of her womanhood tightened ever more around his cock, and he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from spilling his seed inside her before she had the chance to finish. Her arms wrapped clear round his shoulders, and her fingernails dug into his back. At first it had been merely a light pressure, but now he knew she'd leave marks. _Wolf or lion, we both have claws._

Unable to stop himself, he sped up, slamming into her a bit harder than he liked, but he was so near his end, and he could tell she was, too. "Tyrion," she gasped, and he nearly lost it then. Her legs quivered around him, he felt her clenching around his cock, and, finally, Sansa released a shaky cry that echoed in their bedchamber as she reached her climax. Tyrion kept thrusting and circling her clit, letting her ride out the waves of pleasure, and just as her cry faded, he finally let the pressure that had been building inside him release. He gave a hard thrust of his own, and he let his seed spill inside her at last. He whispered her name in her ear like a prayer as he thrusted in and out of her a few more times with his softening cock; would that he could fuck her all night long. Alas, drunken little lust-filled beast that he was, he didn't have it in him tonight.

Utterly spent in every possible way, Tyrion collapsed on his wife. His full weight was on her, but he looked over to her, and she didn't seem to mind. Her hands were still shaking on his back, her legs still quivering, her eyes still rolled back. Tyrion couldn't resist the vainglorious smile that came to his lips then. He displayed it proudly as he reveled in his abilities. _I am the god of tits and wine._

As the euphoria of spilling his seed faded, Tyrion felt a sting on his shoulders and realized she had indeed drawn blood. Guiltily, he thought of Shae. His mistress wouldn't like that, but how was he to know sweet, innocent little Sansa would leave marks?

At last, Sansa's tremblings from her first climax dissipated, and her eyes finally opened. She turned her head to look at him, and he smiled at her. Her eyes widened, and she gave a weak smile in return as yet another blush returned to her cheeks, but then she turned her head away again and focused on the canopy above them. Her smile faded, and she drew her hands away from his back.

Just like that, his wife had put her armor of courtesy and modesty back on. Tyrion turned his face away from her as he pushed himself up, but looked back at her as she winced as his cock fell out of her.

"How are you feeling, Sansa?" he asked, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice as she brought her arms up to cover her breasts, and her legs closed together.

"I'm fine, my lord."

Tyrion knew she'd finished, but he wanted her to admit it to herself, so he asked her, "Did you enjoy it at all?" Sansa merely nodded, still looking at the canopy. With a sigh, he said, "Wait there." He climbed down off the bed and fetched a water basin and some cloths before returning to her. He laid the basin on the bedside table before dampening a cloth and wringing out the excess water. Softly, he got back on the bed, pushed her legs apart once more, and washed her clean of her maiden's blood and his and her arousal that had spilled out of her when he had withdrawn. Her thighs tensed as he moved the cloth over her broken maidenhead, still tender, but she said nothing.

"Sansa?" he said, as he knelt between her legs. She looked at his face, and he gave her a smile, but then she looked down and quickly away. Tyrion looked down and realized what she'd seen. Oh, fuck me. Her maiden's blood still covered his cock in slick, dark red streaks from where he'd withdrawn from her. Folding over the same cloth he'd cleaned her with, he quickly wiped himself off. At his movement, she closed her legs again. Clearly their wedding night was at an end. Tyrion had known it was, but he hadn't wanted her to feel so ashamed. He'd thought... well, it didn't matter what he'd thought. This was the truth of it.

Tyrion got off the bed, took the bedside candle to light a few others he'd put out not long ago, and went to the wardrobe and found a nightshift for himself. He wasn't accustomed to them, but he knew Sansa would prefer if he wore one. He found a silken blue nightgown with silver embroidery for Sansa, as well, and took it to where Sansa still lay in the bed.

"Sansa, you can put this on, if you like." He held out the garment as he reached the side of the bed. She looked over and saw her nightgown, and she sat up, one hand still holding firm to her breasts. "I had your handmaiden deliver a few of your things so you wouldn't be without until the rest of your things are moved in on the morrow."

She looked him in the eyes before standing from the bed and accepting the gown from him. "Thank you, my lord." She turned her back to him, and he to her as she changed.

When she had finished, he offered her his hand, and she took it, and he led her to take a seat at the table, where he poured them both cups of water and pushed a bowl of grapes toward her. "Try them," he told her after he'd popped one in his mouth. "Nothing better than grapes and cherries after..." He let the thought die, assuming she wouldn't want a reference to their bedding. Judging by the blush that rose to her cheeks, he was right. "Or almonds," he said, taking the seat next to her and popping one in his mouth. He'd meant it as a distraction, but they actually were quite good.

Once they'd had their fill of fruit and strained silences, Tyrion stood and found a spare bed sheet in the wardrobe and took it to their marriage bed. Stepping up on the stool, he pulled back the covers and spread the spare sheet over everything, so Sansa wouldn't have to lie in her own maiden's blood. He tucked in the sides and the top under the pillow. He wasn't accustomed to making his own bed, but it looked half-decent to him, at least for one night.

"Thank you," Sansa said quietly as he stepped down from the stool.

"You're quite welcome." He stood beside her as she sat. With a smile, he couldn't help but brush a strand of hair behind her ear before kissing her on the forehead.

She blushed with a small smile before looking at the folded hands on her lap.

Tyrion gave a quiet sigh, more frustrated by himself and his high hopes than he was with Sansa. He should have known that one bedding would not a happy marriage with a ward of the crown make. He poured himself a glass of wine to finish off the evening. "Sansa, I want you to know that I don't expect you to share my bed again in that way, not until you're ready, be it a week, month, or even a year. We've done our duty, no one can ask any more of us than that." _Well, my father can ask for an heir to Winterfell all he likes, but that's for me to deal with, not her._

"Truly?" she asked, looking up at him, confused. "Did you not...?" She trailed off with a frown, looking away.

"Did I not what, Sansa?" He took a sip of his wine.

She nearly whispered, "Did you not enjoy it?"

Tyrion nearly choked on his wine as he coughed on it in surprise. He felt the wine burn in his nose, all the more sensitive since he received his scar on the Blackwater.

"My lord?" Sansa reached forward, handkerchief already in hand and offered to him.

"Thank you." He set his wine glass down on the table and shook off his wrist where he'd spilled it, took the handkerchief, and dabbed at his face and the drops that had spilled onto his shift. Very dignified. Once he'd regained some semblance of composure, he returned his attention to his wife, who still sat with a frown. "Sansa," he said, taking her hand and putting a finger under her chin to bring her face up to his. "What we just shared, Sansa... for me, it was perfect. You were perfect. You felt... Sansa, you felt amazing, and the way you responded to me, I... Sansa, I'm not exaggerating when I say that I do believe I'll be taking the memory of this night with me to the grave." He smiled at her as he caressed his thumb over her cheekbone.

She blushed at that. "You didn't think... you didn't mind how improper I was?"

"Improper?" Tyrion's brow furrowed. "What in the world are you talking about?"

Sansa tilted her head and fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. "I was so... so loud. I didn't mean to be, I just—"

Tyrion didn't mean to laugh at her, he really didn't, but he couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips. "Is that why you've been embarrassed since we finished? Gods, Sansa, I adored the sounds you made in your pleasure. They're among the sweetest noises I've ever heard."

Sansa shook her head, not believing him, he could tell. "No, it was so unladylike."

"Sansa, I don't want a lady in my bed, I want my wife." He didn't mean it to come out so brash, but it was the truth. Sansa cocked her head, not understanding, so he took a breath and ran a hand through his hair, then knelt before her and took her hands in his. "You are a glorious lady at court, and I wouldn't trade that for anything. The way you've managed to survive amongst my family—well, I'm certain you could talk us out of any trouble my mouth could ever get us into." She smiled sheepishly at that. "But here, when it's just the two of us, Sansa..." He paused to find the words without insulting her sensibilities. "When it's just us, Sansa, we're not at court. We are man and wife, like any other man and woman married anywhere else in Westeros. We can drink and laugh and tell crude jokes and shout and scream our intimate pleasures into the night." Sansa blushed at that, but she didn't look away, to his surprise. "This is all new to you, I know, and most of this, having a lady wife, it's new to me, as well." He would save telling her about Tysha for another night. "But that, what I've just described to you, that's what I desperately want, and I hope it's a way we can both find happiness. Besides, at court," he said with a sigh, "I am Tyrion Lannister, and you are Sansa Stark. And I fear that won't ever change. Here, if we leave court behind us just for a little while in the evenings, we can simply be Tyrion and Sansa, man and wife. Would that please you as it would me, Sansa?"

Sansa's bottom lip was quivering, and Tyrion worried he'd said something to upset her until she nodded, a single tear rolling down her cheek at his words.

"Sansa," he murmured as he stood, and he took her in his arms as she leaned forward, and she let out a quiet sob as her head rested against his chest. His arms wrapped about her neck, cradling her head, his hands stroking at her hair. Softly, he laid his cheek on the top of her hair and let her lean in to him as long as she needed.

She only let out the one sob, but she stayed there in his arms for much longer than he thought she would. He simply held her until she pulled one hand away and stifled a yawn. "Tired?"

Sansa pulled back and looked at him. "Exhausted."

He kissed her on the forehead once more and offered her his hand, leading her to the bed. As she climbed atop and rearranged the pillows to her liking, Tyrion went around the room and blew out the candles.

"Tyrion?" she said, and he looked to her. "Could you bolt the door tonight?"

An odd request, but if it made her feel safer, he was more than happy to grant it. He slid the bolt shut on the door to their bedchambers and returned to his wife. She sat up, waiting for him as he climbed into bed beside her. She leaned over and blew out the candle on her table, and he did the same. Darkness took over, broken only by the light from the half moon that shone in through the arches to the courtyard beyond their rooms.

Sansa moved to lay down in the bed, and Tyrion did the same. He wanted to hold her, he loved holding someone as he slept. But Sansa merely looked at him across their bed, said "goodnight" with a smile, her face illuminated by moonlight, then turned away. He thought briefly about calling her to him, or reaching out to her, or simply moving to lay beside her, but if she'd wanted him near, she would have come near. No, he'd already asked far more of her tonight than he ever thought he'd ask of any girl of four and ten. Woman, he reminded himself. _Any woman of four and ten_. For if there had been any debate on whether Sansa had been woman or child at the beginning of the night, Tyrion had seen to it that there was none now.

At that, he remembered how sweet it had been, that moment when she had reached out to him and pulled him on top of her, when their bodies had first touched, when he had first felt her bare, warm flesh against his. How he had simply lain there, forehead pressed into her long, beautiful neck, listening to her heartbeat, her breathing. He listened to her breathing now. _One day_ , he hoped to himself. _One day we may sleep nearer._ But she'd already given him the sweetest gift tonight, one that she'd even enjoyed giving him. And that would be enough. With that comforting thought, the copious amounts of wine he'd consumed that night caught up to him, and Tyrion Lannister fell into a deep slumber.


	3. Sansa II

**Chapter 3, Sansa II**

When Sansa awoke, she didn't immediately remember where she was or what had happened the night before, but she knew something was different. She was different. As she opened her eyes and saw the Lannister crimson velvet that draped around the bed, she remembered where she was, and whom she was with.

 _Lady Sansa Stark of House Lannister._ It sounded odd, but she supposed that was her full title and name now. Unless she wanted to be referred to simply as Sansa Lannister, but she didn't think she was ready for that quite yet. Not until the war was over, at least. Not until she could see her family again, explain to them that he wasn't Joffrey, or any of the rest of them. Her mother might never understand, given her history with her new husband, but she'd heard rumors that her brother had married a girl, and not the Frey girl he'd been betrothed to. He married for affection. Robb could understand, at least, if he tried. Probably not Arya, as much as she hated all the Lannisters the last time Sansa saw her. Jon could understand, wherever he was at the Wall, or beyond. She wished she'd spent more time with him before they'd all left Winterfell, but she'd been more worried about saying her goodbyes to Mother and Robb. _And Bran and Rickon…_ She shook her head. There were only rumors; nothing had been said for certain that she had overheard. Besides, if they were dead for a certainty, Joffrey would have made sure that she'd known it.

Sansa stretched her legs, and her womanhood twinged with a slight soreness. I'm a woman now. A curiosity went through her, and Sansa put her hand on her belly. _Did we make a child last night? When will I know? Will it be a boy or a girl? Will they have golden hair or auburn? Will they…?_

Sansa's racing mind paused as she heard her husband stir behind her, and she turned around to greet him. His hair was tousled, and his face was peaceful, just as it had been in the moments after…

Sansa blushed as her husband opened his eyes. "G'morning," he slurred.

Sansa smiled. "Good morning."

Tyrion's hand started to reach out to her, but then a bang at the door halted his movement, and Sansa's heart skipped a beat. _Joffrey_.

With a groan, her husband rolled out of bed, grabbed a robe from a side chair, and donned it on his way to the door. Nervously, Sansa sat up and looked around. There were candlesticks and metal bowls, but nothing to properly defend herself with if Joffrey attacked.

But her panic was for nought, as it was just her handmaiden with a breakfast tray who came through the door as her husband opened it. Sansa gave a sigh of relief, but apparently she was alone in the feeling. Shae promptly put the tray down on the table rather harshly before taking up Sansa's robe with a pointed look toward Tyrion as she proceeded to meet Sansa for the morning, bundling her up in the robe as soon as Sansa pushed herself out of her plush marriage bed.

"It's alright, Shae," Sansa said quietly and with a small smile, trying to reassure her overprotective handmaiden that she really was, indeed, alright. But instead of alleviating Shae's worries, it seemed to make her frown even more pronounced, and Sansa's brow furrowed at the reaction. She moved aside as Shae stepped to the bed to take up the sheets, both the top sheet that Tyrion had laid for her to sleep on, as well as the lower sheet bloodied with Sansa's maiden's blood. Sansa blushed at the sight and went to the breakfast table to join her new husband, who was already seated there, decidedly looking out the window.

"Please don't mind her," Sansa told him under her breath. "She's just overprotective." Sansa put her hand on his, and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze darted down to see her hand on his, but he kept his look fixed out the window as Shae finished stripping the bed and left, closing the door more firmly than was necessary. Sansa frowned, looking at the door. Slowly, Tyrion relaxed a bit and smiled at her as he grabbed a piece of fruit.

"Are you alright, my lord?"

Tyrion looked at her properly for the first time since they left their bed, and he gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, my dearest Sansa. I'm fine. And you?"

Sansa nodded. "I'm… I'm a bit sore," she admitted. "But other than that, I am well."

"Should I send for a maester?" he asked, concern touching his brow.

Sansa shook her head. "There's no need for that. I'll be fine."

Tyrion nodded, then gave her a small smile before covering her hand with his own. Sansa entwined her fingers with his before giving a small nervous laugh. "I'm sorry, I really don't know what to say," she admitted, and he chuckled with her.

"And that, my dear lady, is where wine comes in," he said, reaching for the flagon of wine and pouring two glasses.

"At this hour?"

"I think we both have a long day ahead of us. Might as well get a start on it." He picked up his cup and held it up to her. "To my lady wife."

Sansa brought her cup to his. "To my lord husband," she replied playfully, and they clinked their cups before taking a sip.

At that, Tyrion's squire, Podrick Payne, entered their chambers. "My lord, my lady," he said with a bow before approaching them and leaning closely to Tyrion's ear. He whispered, but Sansa still heard what was said. "Your lord father has requested to see the bedsheets."

Sansa blushed as she took another sip of wine, pretending that she hadn't heard. She saw as Tyrion looked sideways at her, but then said only, "Lady Sansa's handmaiden has already taken them to be washed. Would you please summon her back?"

Podrick straightened up. "Yes, my lord. Oh," he added, looking at Sansa. "Forgive me, my lady, but I saw Lady Margaery just a moment ago in the courtyard, and she asked if you might join her and her cousins for needlework later this morning in the gardens?"

Sansa put down her cup. "That sounds lovely. Thank you for passing along her invitation. I'll go to her myself shortly, so don't worry yourself replying to her."

"Very good, my lady." Podrick blushed as he bowed again and left, presumably to find Shae.

Sansa ate a pastry, a handful of grapes, and finished the small cup of wine Tyrion had poured for her before excusing herself from the table. In the wardrobe, she found only one dress to wear until the rest of her things were brought into her new chambers, their chambers, but luckily it was a favorite of hers in purple silk. She considered waiting for Shae, but then shook her head, deciding to dress herself. She changed into fresh underclothes and shift, then put on her dress and fixed it in place with a silk belt and broach at the waist. As she sat at the vanity, her eyes widened in embarrassment as she saw what her hair looked like as Podrick had seen it. Shae, she had probably seen worse when nightmares kept Sansa tossing and turning all night, but not by much. Sansa wondered why her hair was so much more unkempt this morning than usual, but then she recalled how Tyrion's fingers had worked their way into her tresses and tugged at her hair just enough to make her gasp…

Sansa shook herself and ignored the blush rising to her cheeks as she reached for a brush. It wasn't hers, so it must have been Tyrion's, but she didn't think he'd mind. She quickly brushed through her locks until they were straight, and then found the pins and ribbons Tyrion had taken out of her hair the previous night. She did her hair up in a simple Northern braid and fixed it in place, and then found her basket of needlework in the solar near where Tyrion still sat at the table, finishing his breakfast. She was still flustered when she was about to leave and realized it would be rude to do so without a word.

Would a simple goodbye suffice, after last night? She didn't think so, so Sansa went to the side of his chair, knelt, and kissed him softly on the cheek. He looked at her and gave her a wry smile that she returned before standing. As she turned away, he caught her hand, pulling her back to him. "You didn't think you'd get away from me that easily, did you?"

Only a day ago, she would have found those words only threatening from the lips of a Lannister, but now, now she smiled at them, at him, at his playfulness. She gave a giggle before bending down to meet his lips, and she closed her eyes as his kiss was just as soft and sweet as she remembered. How, how did she enjoy this so much? It was all so new to her, but so many women spoke of bedding as a burden, as something to be done solely for the purpose of making heirs, but gods, even the thought of what they shared the previous night had Sansa's cheeks burning and her woman's parts yearning for more. Though she would never admit that to him, of course, or anyone else for that matter. Her mother raised her to be a more proper lady than that, and she would never betray her Stark upbringing.

His tongue traced across her lower lip before releasing her, and Sansa pulled back, her eyes slowly reopening to his tell-tale Lannister green eyes. They really are beautiful, Sansa thought to herself, losing herself in his gaze for just a moment before mentally shaking herself and straightening up.

"I should go. To meet Lady Margaery, I mean."

Tyrion winked at her. "Enjoy your needlework, my lady."

Sansa nodded and slowly turned around and escaped. _Am I really feeling all this for a Lannister?_ she asked herself. But she already knew the answer was a resounding _yes_.

* * *

Long time, no update, I know! I've had pretty bad writer's block on Winter's Thaw and so decided to try and de-rust my writing skills on this a bit. It's a short chapter, but I promise the next two will be out soon. Originally these three chapters were supposed to be one, but I didn't like the POV shift and realized there was enough content to break them up separately. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this one, and I hope to have the next chapter up either tonight or tomorrow. Cheers!


	4. Tyrion II

**Chapter 4, Tyrion II**

Tyrion may have seen Sansa off with a smile, but as soon as she was out the door, he threw his head back in dread of the conversation he was about to have once his squire returned with his mistress. He loved Shae, he truly did, but Sansa… Sansa was his wife now, she would be the mother of his children, the woman by his side for the rest of his life. He couldn't marginalize that for the sake of keeping a mistress. Even Ned Stark had a bastard, but as he'd told Jon Snow, _"All dwarves are bastards in their fathers' eyes."_ So what would that make his bastard of a dwarf? He didn't want to dwell on it. All he knew is that now, with things going so much better with Sansa than he ever could have hoped for, Shae could not stay. But could he actually tell her to go, when he still loved her? He doubted it. And he doubted she would leave on her own. _Gods, fuck me._

A knock at the door, and Tyrion straightened up to see Podrick open the door for Shae, still carrying the bloody sheets, albeit now folded, Sansa's maiden's blood on display at the top of the pile of linens.

"Podrick, would you find some chests and trunks and take them to Lady Sansa's chambers so that her belongings can be packed and brought here?"

"Yes, my lord," he said, bowing his head and excusing himself, closing the door behind him. There's certainly something to be said for a squire who doesn't ask too many questions at the wrong time.

"You bedded her," Shae said, dropping the sheets down on the chair Sansa had been sitting in not long before. She was upset, and Tyrion knew this was going to happen, no matter how much they'd talked about it.

"It was my duty, Shae. She is my wife."

"She's a child."

"Not as much as you might think," he mused, thinking of her calling out his name the night before. He tried to keep his voice level, but some of his wistfulness must have come through.

"You love her," Shae said accusingly.

"I barely know her," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "But she is my wife. We talked about this."

"Yes, we talked about this," she said, her accent thick, her voice low. "She is your wife. And I am your whore."

"Shae—"

"What? Are you going to say something clever? Go on, say something clever!" In that moment, she reminded Tyrion terribly of his father, all the times he'd said those words to him to spite him in retort, but he shook the rebuke aside.

Despite the animosity coming from his mistress, he approached her slowly and took her hand. "Shae, I care for you very much." She huffed at the pronouncement, but he carried on. "I care for you, and you will always have a place with me, as long as you want it." He shouldn't have been so weak, he should have told her to go, but he couldn't, he couldn't send away someone who seemed to truly care for him. Not again. "If you don't want to stay here," he paused, feeling his words in his chest. "If you want to leave, I promise I will provide a good life for you."

"You want to pay me to go away?"

"No, of course I don't, I want you, I…" he shook his head and hung it down before he could gather his thoughts. "I will take care of you, no matter what you choose. That's what I'm saying. If you want to leave, if you don't want to be around Sansa—"

"You think I don't want to be around her? I love that girl as if she were my own family. More than my own family, truly. Do you think that makes this all easier, seeing her with you?" Shae paused then in her rant before her tone softened. "She looked happy, this morning."

Tyrion nodded, absentmindedly. "Well, I did try my best." Shae ripped her hand from his, and he grimaced as he realized what he'd said and to whom he'd said it. "Poor choice of words, I'm sorry."

"Oh, I know all about that. ' _Language can be a bit tricky here_ ,'" she said mockingly, throwing his own words back at him to cruel effect and turning her back to him.

"Shae, I have always been kind to Sansa from the moment I returned to King's Landing, and she knows I mean her no ill will. For whatever naïveté the girl still has, she trusts me, and I'm not going to break that trust by carrying on with a mistress behind her back." He struggled for his next words. "And... this is what we're born to do. Sansa and I… neither of us chose this marriage, but it's our duty to make it work. Regardless of how we might feel for others in our lives." He put his hands on Shae's hips and pressed his forehead against her lower back.

He lowered his voice to a near whisper. "If I could have married you without consequence that first night I lay with you, I would have. But I refuse to see you go through what Tysha did, or worse." Shae turned around and put her arms around Tyrion's shoulders, giving him the courage to go on. "I… I don't have the strength to send you away, Shae. I'm too selfish. But know that so long as you live, my lady, with me or away, I will always take care of you."

She looked at him for a while before speaking again. "Answer me one thing, my lion."

"Name it."

"Who do you prefer?"

Tyrion hesitated, just a moment too long, and he could see the exact moment any affection she had for him in her eyes snuffed out like a candle. Her hands pressed down angrily on his shoulder, and he winced as she disturbed the scratches from the previous night.

"She scratched you?" Shae asked incredulously, throwing her hands away from him.

"Not intentionally." Tyrion circled his shoulders with a grimace, and Shae drew back and turned away from him.

Tyrion closed his eyes, knew that she was going to leave. All she had to do was say the words, and he will have lost yet another person who cared for him.

"Let me stay as her handmaiden for a while longer. Give me time to say goodbye." She said it stiffly, and Tyrion knew there was nothing left. She was casting him off like so many men before him.

"You can stay as long as you want," he told her.

"I don't want to stay here afterward. In Westeros." She turned back around to face him.

"Pentos?" he suggested, and she nodded.

"I'll see that you live like a princess," he promised.

Shae nodded again. "Maybe ask Lord Varys if he knows any merchant princes looking for a mistress."

He knew she said it just to hurt him, that she didn't really mean it, but it didn't make the comment sting any less. "I'll mention it to him."

Shae nodded, and then curtsied. "My lord."

She turned without hesitation and left, shutting the door behind her. The door's snap echoed, and Tyrion was left with a hollow ache in his chest. She wasn't truly gone, not yet, but she was done with him. No more drinking into the morning hours, intermittently setting aside the wine to fuck themselves silly; no more tavern games and bawdy stories with Bronn; no more laying by her side, smelling her dark, wavy hair as she slept; no more listening to beautiful nonsense in her Lorathi accent; no more. For a while, Tyrion just sat and drank. He didn't weep, as he did for Tysha. He knew this day would come eventually, had known it since the moment Bronn had brought her to his tent. As with all things, he knew there would be pain, just not when, and this had come to him sooner than expected.

At last, Podrick returned. "I gathered five chests for Lady Sansa's things, my lord, and her handmaiden had just returned to begin packing as I was leaving."

Tyrion didn't look at him for a moment. "Good lad. Here, have a cup." He poured a cup for his squire and motioned for him to sit down. He moved the bloody sheets to the floor and patted the chair for Podrick to sit in.

"Thank you, my lord." He sat and picked up his cup.

"To my lady wife," Tyrion toasted.

"To Lady Sansa," Pod said, and they clinked their cups together and drank. After a moment, Pod asked, "My lord, are you alright?"

Tyrion looked at him. "You're too clever for your own good sometimes, you know that, Pod?"

"I probably get that from someone. Not sure who," the boy quipped, a rare break in propriety.

Tyrion chuckled and patted Pod's arm. "I'm fine. Just adjusting to married life." It wasn't the truth, but it wasn't untrue either, technically speaking. "Come, help me find something to wear today that won't give my wife second thoughts." He stood up, still surprisingly sober, and went to the wardrobe to dress.

Once he was buttoned and tucked and his hair was somewhat smoothed after Sansa had thoroughly ruffled it the previous night, he poured another half cup of wine and downed it. "Right, let's go see my father, Podrick. Bring the sheets. Tuck the top one under though, would you?" Tyrion found it rather distasteful that Shae had put the blood directly on top. The whole of the Red Keep may already know that he was a lust-filled monster, but there was no reason to drag Sansa into his poor reputation.

It was a long walk to the Tower of the Hand, but finally he stood at the doors that had once been his own and entered the solar. His father sat behind the desk, barely looking up as he and Podrick entered. He motioned for Pod to set the sheets on the corner of his father's desk before dismissing him outside. No point in condemning more people than necessary to his father's unpleasantness.

When he'd finished the letter he was working on, Tywin Lannister reached out for the bed sheets and flipped them open to reveal his wife's maiden's blood, as well as some of his own dried seed that he hadn't noticed before in such glaring detail.

"Satisfied?" Tyrion asked him.

"Yes… Is there something else?" he asked when Tyrion didn't move right away, sure his father would want to say something about the feast the previous evening. However, Tyrion did remember a certain promise he'd made to Sansa. "Sansa is a lady of House Lannister now. Cersei claimed most of mother's necklaces, but I would like to gift one to my new wife, if you'll allow it."

A moment passed in which Tyrion wasn't sure whether his father was merely thinking, or considering chucking him out a window for daring to inquire about having one of Joanna Lannister's jewels. But eventually, his father nodded.

"I suppose she is a lady of House Lannister now. She should look the part." He turned his attention to one of his desk drawers and pulled out a key. Without a word, he rose from his desk and walked down a hallway to stop at a tapestry. He pulled it aside to reveal a safe.

"I didn't know that was there," Tyrion commented curiously.

"Nor does anyone else. I had it installed by my own men the last time I was Hand to Aerys. I never mentioned it when I left, and it was untouched until I opened it again recently." He put the key in the lock, and it turned over, but before opening the safe, he paused. "You embarrassed our family last night." Tyrion gave a smug grimace to himself, knowing this would come up sooner rather than later. "You embarrassed our family with your drunken antics and careless words, our family and your new wife. Don't let it happen again. If not for your family's sake, for Sansa's." His father's voice took on an almost soft tone. "Our family needs you to be better, Tyrion. If marriage doesn't make you the man you should be, then nothing will."

With those words of fatherly love hanging in the stale hallway air, he opened the safe. "You may choose what you like for your wife, save for the items on the topmost shelf. Close the safe and return the key to me when you have finished." With that, he walked away.

"Not as if I could reach the top shelf anyway," he muttered under his breath before reaching into the safe. It wasn't all jewelry. There were maps, a Valyrian steel knife or two, letters Tyrion wouldn't mind reading if he had the chance at another time, bags of gold, silver, and copper. But when he finally sorted out the jewelry, most of it was of yellow gold and rubies, big bold pieces that Sansa would have hated for being akin to a Lannister collar, a claim on her. That wasn't what he wanted to give her. He wanted her to look the part of his wife yes, but in her own right. He wanted something light, and fresh, and beautiful, and…

"Perfect." He smirked to himself, having found just the heirloom for his new wife. He carefully tucked it back into the box it had been laying in for thirty odd years before closing the safe and pulling out the key.

As he returned to the solar, he handed the key back to his father. "Thank you," he said, without an ounce of irony or mirth. He even gave his father a nod. Even more surprisingly, his father returned it, albeit a more brief, cool nod. Even so, Tyrion wondered if his father was right, if being a married man again would change him. He knew being married to Tysha had changed him, but he had loved her. He cared for Sansa, but he didn't love her, not yet at least. He didn't think so, anyway…


	5. Sansa III

**Chapter 5, Sansa III**

Sansa arrived to the gardens to find Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery, and several of her cousins seated in a circle in the shade of a linen tent with the sides drawn back and fluttering in the slight breeze. As the wind blew in from the Blackwater, Sansa felt a slight chill in the air, the first signs she'd properly noticed of Autumn coming to King's Landing. For a moment, she wondered if there was snow in Winterfell. It wouldn't be much, only a light dusting, but it would be something, enough to leave small patches of white in the low spots of her home's landscape.

"Lady Sansa," Margaery greeted, rising from her seat, setting aside her own needlework, and coming to take Sansa by the arm. Her cousins giggled, and Sansa felt quite the center of attention. "Come sit by me, my dear."

Without delay, a chair was added to the circle, and Sansa took a seat and pulled her current project—a weirwood tree in a winter landscape on gray silk, something Sansa hoped to make a part of a dress skirt—out of her basket and began to work on it. Within moments, she was acutely aware of the silence surrounding her. She looked up slowly and found Margaery and the other ladies looking at her. She turned to Margaery. "Is something wrong?"

"Silly girl," Lady Olenna burst out. "You didn't think all of these pretty little idiots really invited you here the morning after your wedding night to do needlework, did you?"

Sansa realized what they expected from her and said, "Oh." Softly, she laid down her needlework as a blush rose to her cheeks.

"I tried telling them they could ask me questions, if they were curious," Lady Olenna said, "but I think they're more curious about the reputation of your particular husband. Besides that, your experiences are a few decades more recent than my own, sadly." Lady Olenna sipped at her tea and leaned back in her chair. "Well go on, please do indulge us. I wouldn't mind having some fodder for the next time I have to spar with your lord husband over wedding expenses, which is like to be this afternoon, as a matter of fact."

"Well, it… it was quite lovely," Sansa answered honestly. Margaery nodded at her encouragingly, and so she went on. "It wasn't what I expected, really. He was gentle, and kind, and… and he made it a… pleasurable experience for both of us." Sansa felt herself blushing hot as the sands of Dorne as she said that last bit, and the giggles of the Tyrell girls only made it pronounced.

"So… what is a dwarf like? Down there?" one asked.

"Megga!" Margaery chastised, though nothing in her expression showed a retraction of the question.

"Well, I don't know." Sansa wondered at how to even say what they were wanting her to say. "I mean, I walked in on my brothers a few times on accident growing up, and Lord Tyrion seemed… comparable, I suppose."

More giggling burst out, and Sansa was fairly certain her face was as red as her hair at this point.

"And it was pleasurable? It didn't hurt at all?" Margaery asked.

"It did at first. But he made sure I was… ready, so that when we… become one, I suppose," more giggling ensued, but Sansa kept going, "it hurt, but not nearly so much as I'd imagined. And the pain was over fairly quickly and became pleasure. There was one moment where he was a bit rough, but when he realized he was hurting me, he apologized and became gentle again."

"Imagine that, a man of Lord Tyrion's stature forgetting his own strength," Lady Olenna quipped dryly, and Sansa blushed. She recalled how he'd gently but firmly pulled at her hair. There was nothing weak in the way Sansa had been bedded last night.

"He may not be built like a normal man, Lady Olenna, but if normal men are any stronger in the marriage bed, perhaps I should be thankful he is the way he is," Sansa said, almost defensively. There was much laughter at that, but Sansa picked up her needlework, signaling that she was quite finished speaking about the affairs of her bedchambers.

"And you're happy, child?" Lady Olenna asked, forcing Sansa to look up from her work yet again.

Sansa thought about it for a moment, the bubbly feeling she'd had as she'd kissed Tyrion this morning, and she nodded softly. "I am. I think he'll make me happy."

She and Margaery smiled at her. Margaery leaned in close, and whispered so only Sansa could hear. "I would have dearly loved to have you as a sister, Sansa. But I think Lord Tyrion may just make you happier than Loras could have."

"We'll see," Sansa said with a smile. She still wondered what it would have been like to marry Ser Loras, to be sisters with Margaery and to be the Lady of Highgarden. But at least her wonderful wedding night with Tyrion made the thought that she could have married Loras less bitter and more a wistful curiosity.

At that, the Tyrell ladies' curiosity seemed to be sated, and their attentions returned back to their needlework. Sansa hummed a bit, something she hadn't done in… she couldn't even remember the last time she'd hummed. She caught Margaery glancing at her sideways, but Sansa was in a good mood, and she wouldn't let shame dampen it.

As she worked on the smaller details of the leaves on her weirwood tree, she thought about asking Tyrion if she could have gold thread. It would be a lovely accent, of red leaves on a sunny day with the snow laying beyond. _Red and gold_ , Sansa mused. She really was turning into a proper lady of House Lannister. She frowned a moment at the thought of the name, but softened when she thought of who had given her that name.

Surely they couldn't all be bad, save for Tyrion. He had to have gotten his goodness from somewhere. He had mentioned his aunt Genna before, Lord Tywin's sister, and the queen had mentioned her as well. From what Sansa could tell, Genna had all but become a mother figure for the twins and Tyrion after their own mother died giving birth to the latter. Perhaps she was at Casterly Rock. _I wonder if Tyrion would take me there?_ Sansa mused, pulling a stitch tight. _Loras was going to take me to Highgarden, why shouldn't Tyrion take me away to Casterly Rock?_ She wondered how many other Lannisters lived at Casterly Rock. It was rather tradition that second and third sons of House Stark would join the Night's Watch, like her Uncle Benjen, or would become knights and serve the realm, or marry into a family whose male lineage had died out. The only extended family Sansa knew were distant cousins married into the other northern houses, and she only saw them for feasts and celebrations at Winterfell. She had a large family growing up, but she couldn't even imagine having generations of aunts and uncles and cousins alongside her own immediate family at Winterfell. The Tyrells had much the same in Highgarden, as Sansa saw with Margaery and all of her cousins. _I wonder if Tyrion has any cousins my age? I wonder if they'd like me?_ It was all idle wondering; none of the thoughts mattered unless Tyrion would give up his position as Master of Coin to take her to his home, but they were pleasant curiosities the type of which Sansa hadn't indulged in for a very long time, and she felt something akin to a bubble of hope in her chest as she held optimism for her future.

Just as her mind wandered to trying to remember all of the vassal houses loyal to House Lannister, Margaery's cousins began to giggle once again, and Sansa looked up to find the source of their amusement only to find Tyrion approaching her, Podrick shadowing closely behind.

"Lady Margaery, Lady Olenna," he greeted with a bow of his head to two Tyrell ladies with whom he was acquainted. Then he turned to Sansa, and a smile spread across his lips, and Sansa felt herself reciprocating the gesture. "My lady."

Sansa bowed her head, still sitting down. "My lord."

Tyrion tilted his head to look at her needlework. "That truly is exquisite."

Sansa beamed. "Thank you. I want to make it into a dress eventually. I think it would be lovely. Though it could use gold thread for accent," she said, half-questioningly.

Tyrion looked her in the eye. "I'll send Podrick to find a merchant first thing tomorrow morning."

"Thank you." Sansa looked around, acutely aware of Margaery's cousins watching them, and Tyrion looked around as well, prompting another round of giggling. Sansa felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and she saw one come to Tyrion's as well.

Shaking his head with a smile, he looked to Podrick, who came forward with a box.

"A wedding present?" Sansa asked, a smile on her lips, though she felt guilty inwardly as she hadn't considered trying to find something for Tyrion. Between Joffrey giving her away, the absence of any of her family, the lack of a bedding ceremony among all the other things gone wrong with their feast, Sansa hadn't thought much of tradition as it pertained to her own wedding, even after all the years she'd spent as a little girl imagining it.

"Of a sort. I did make you a promise last night," he said with a smile, and Sansa tried to recall what promise he'd made to get her something, but the wine and everything that had happened in their marriage bed rather muddled her thoughts.

Tyrion took the box in his hands and opened it, and Sansa gave a small gasp at the beauty of the necklace he was presenting to her; wrought in delicate strands of white gold with droplets of aquamarine, sapphire, and ruby, it was one of the most beautiful necklaces Sansa had ever seen.

"Do you like it?" he asked, looking intently at Sansa, and she nodded with a bright smile.

"It's wonderful."

"It was my mother's," he said, lifting it from the box and setting the latter aside on a table. "There was quite a lot of yellow gold and rubies to choose from, but I thought this one might suit you a bit better. May I?" he asked.

Sansa nodded and turned in her chair to allow him access to her neck. She pulled aside her braid, and a shiver ran across her skin as his hands graced her neckline as he pulled it into place. He tied it at the back, then moved her braid back in place for her. As she turned back around, Tyrion gave a motion to his squire, and Podrick offered Sansa a mirror. She took it, and she was taken away by it. She wanted to tell him it was too much, but she couldn't refuse his gift, not in front of all the Tyrell ladies.

"I'd hoped you'd like it. The sapphires and rubies reminded me of your mother's house colors. And the aquamarine stones, well…" Tyrion looked around furtively before lowering his voice. "The moment I saw them, they reminded me of your eyes."

Sansa looked in the mirror and realized they really were a perfect match to her own eyes. The sapphires stood out against her pale complexion, and the rubies complemented the blush in her cheeks.

"It's perfect," Sansa told him, still a bit embarrassed over its grandeur. She didn't know whether her mother even had any jewels so fine as this. "Though if you're intent on keeping your promise from last night, I highly doubt I need a dozen necklaces quite this fine."

Tyrion chuckled at her. "Always so modest." He picked up her hand and pressed his lips to it. "I'm very glad you enjoy it, my lady. I'm afraid I have to leave, however. There's still much planning and financing to do for Lady Margaery's wedding," he said with a bow of the head toward Margaery. "But I will see you for dinner, and make time to spend with you after, that much I promise."

At that, he took her left hand in both of his, and ran his thumb in circles over her wedding ring. As he cocked one eyebrow suggestively, Sansa realized he was mimicking the movement of his thumb over her… "nub" as he pleasured her last night.

"Lord Tyrion," she chastised him quietly, pulling her hand from his, but he retaliated by leaning in and planting a kiss upon her lips before she could modestly decline. But Sansa couldn't help the smile that came to her lips as they parted. At that he smiled, bowed his head to her, and to the Tyrell women, then signaled for Podrick to follow him, and he was gone.

The moment he was out of sight, the Tyrell ladies giggled and gossiped worse than even before, and Sansa turned beet red at being the center of such stares and attention. Determined to ignore them, she picked up her needlework and resumed her stitches.

She stayed long enough that she was invited to take lunch with the ladies, but she found the sideways glances unbearable, even after Lady Olenna proclaimed for them all to quit their twittering and get on with finding husbands of their own. After what seemed like days of embarrassment, she finished eating quickly, tucked her things away in her basket, and left.

When she returned, by habit, she returned to her former chambers only to find them completely barren save for the basic furniture. It looked strange, but she didn't feel any sentimentality. These were the chambers she'd been moved to after her father's execution. These were the chambers in which she'd become a prisoner. The four walls she looked at her a prison to her, and she felt nothing for them. Without a word, she turned on her heel and continued on to her married chambers. There, she found Shae unpacking her things.

"That's a pretty necklace," Shae told her, upon seeing her.

Sansa touched it lightly and smiled. "It was a gift from Lord Tyrion."

Shae smiled for her, but it didn't seem true. As Sansa looked closer at her handmaiden, she saw that her eyes were red, and she looked upset. Slowly, she approached Shae, who paused in taking out Sansa's dresses. "Are you okay?" she asked, taking Shae's hand, genuinely concerned for the girl who always seemed so strong and confident.

Her handmaiden's lip quivered. "No. But I don't want to talk about it."

Sansa pressed her lips together in understanding. How many times had she said those very same words to Shae when they'd first met, before she came to trust her. If Shae didn't want her prying, she would afford Shae the same courtesy she had afforded Sansa months ago. In what felt like such a familiar gesture, she embraced Shae, holding her tight to her breast, and Shae wrapped her arms around her. It wasn't often that Arya had hugged Sansa, but when she had, Sansa had always made sure to make her sister feel loved and safe, just as she did for Shae now.

When Shae was ready, Sansa released her, thumbed away her tears, kissed her cheek, and then wordlessly began to help Shae put away her clothes into the wardrobe. They then tucked her books onto Tyrion's already overflowing bookshelves; set her needlework projects on a table by a chair in the solar; put Sansa's poems in a drawer in the desk for her to work on as she wanted.

At last, she unpacked the doll her father had given her, his last gift to her. She placed it on the vanity, then considered putting it away out of sight, in case Tyrion didn't want something so childish in plain view. _No_ , she thought, staying her hand. _He'd want me to be happy._

It was an instinct that brought doubt to her mind, and it made her question herself. _He's still a Lannister. Would a Lannister really want me to be happy?_

A moment and then… _Yes_ , she answered herself. _Yes, this one would. Tyrion would._


	6. Tyrion III

**Chapter 6, Tyrion III**

As Tyrion returned from a meeting with Lady Olenna, Podrick trailing behind with the ledgers and yet more notes of expenses Lady Olenna wished to add to this already ridiculously extravagant wedding, he shook his head, trying to clear from his mind the quips she had shot at him whenever she didn't like something he said.

"Can we replace a few of these courses with chicken, rather than pheasant, to save on cost?" he'd asked.

"What? You think the larger bird is comparable to the smaller? Though I suppose your wife did say something similar about that, surprisingly enough." A knowing glance made him feel like he was naked in front of the matriarch.

He wasn't sure what the Tyrells had managed to get Sansa—modest, sweet Sansa, of all people—to say about their wedding night, but the double entendres and pointed stares unnerved even him after so much of it.

When Tyrion returned to their chambers, he found Sansa seated in the solar, continuing on her needlework. She looked up and greeted him with a smile bright as the sun. She made to set aside her work and stand, but Tyrion held up a hand for her to stay seated. With most people, he didn't particularly care. He'd been looking up at others his whole life. But Sansa… with Sansa, he felt normal, looking straight into his wife's eyes, just as he had when they had kissed the first time on their wedding day when she had knelt for him to cloak her, and then again to seal their marriage with a kiss. That aside, he loved seeing into her eyes. When she looked down at him, they were still lovely, but they were always in shadow. At a level, all the light of the room flooded them, and they sparkled in the way only her bright Tully sky blue eyes could. They were incomparably beautiful.

"Good evening, my dear wife," Tyrion greeted, and he leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted, but she leaned into him, happily, and so he kissed her on the lips. He backed off a bit to see her face, and then kissed her again, this time sucking on her bottom lip a bit and then running his tongue across. When they parted again, Sansa's lips were open, and her eyes held a delicious want in them when she opened them again. He backed away from her, his hand on her arm, and watched as she took a breath to compose herself. Within moments, it was as if she was pure as the Northern snows again. He'd need her to teach him that; being around her was just… torture, in all the right ways. Normally he wasn't around women he found tempting, and who would have him, so often, but now that he was married, he'd have to temper his lust, or he and Sansa would wind up spending most of their lives in the bedchamber, if he had his way.

"I ordered a pot roast for our dinner. You didn't say when you'd be back, and a roast keeps well, so I thought it a good choice."

"A perfect choice. It's my favorite," Tyrion said, smiling.

"Really? That's lucky," Sansa giggled, clearly proud of herself.

Tyrion wandered over to the table, popped a few grapes in his mouth, and then poured himself a glass of wine. "Would you like some, my lady?"

Sansa considered it. "I've never much liked the taste of wine, to be honest."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, but his mouth betrayed a smile. "I can't trust someone who doesn't drink wine." Tyrion poured a second cup, but then added water to it. "Try this."

Sansa took the cup from him, then drank a sip. He watched her savor it a moment, and then nod. "It's not as bitter."

"It's just watered down. You don't get drunk as quickly, but it does go down a bit smoother."

Podrick returned from putting the ledger on his desk and tidying for the day, and said, "My lord, shall I set the table for dinner?"

Tyrion nodded, and then pulled up the footstool so that he could sit next to Sansa while they waited for their supper.

"We should have another chair put here, so we can sit together more comfortably in the evenings," she said quite certainly.

"Oh? And are there any other changes my lady wife would like to make to the running of my household?" he teased.

She narrowed her eyes, not quite as playfully as he might have hoped for. "Our household," she corrected. "And as a matter of fact, I'd like a second smaller desk put in the solar for me to work and read and draw sew. And some of these rugs are quite worn. We should have them replaced."

Tyrion's eyebrows shot up and he took another sip of wine. "I'm sorry I asked."

Sansa's face fell, and she looked away. "They were just ideas."

He leaned forward and touched her elbow. "I'm sorry, Sansa, I didn't mean that." He had meant it, though only because it was usually his sister being so picky, and he was used to being dismissive of this sort of thing with her. He regretted saying it to Sansa, though. She was only trying to make his chambers feel like home for her, too. "It was only a joke. You're quite right, this is our household, and I want you to be just as happy and comfortable here as I am. Make whatever orders or changes you like, my dear."

"Truly?" she asked

"Truly."

She nodded, reassured, and Podrick announced that dinner was ready.

They went to bed not long after dinner, and Tyrion avoided looking at Shae. He could tell she was avoiding looking at him, as well. He would have to find Sansa a new handmaiden. Or two. She was a married woman now, she could have two. Finding two who weren't spies for his sister, Littlefinger, Varys, or his father would be a bit tricky, but he would manage it somehow.

Once in bed with the lights out, Tyrion's fingers twitched for her skin. Gods, knowing what she felt like the previous night, he just wanted to touch her. But he knew where that would lead, and he didn't want to hurt her; he wasn't sure if she needed time to heal, after he took her maidenhead last night. He intended to give her at least a few nights' rest before he bedded his wife again, in any case. So he shut his eyes, and tried to think about dragons to put himself to sleep.

But that plan fell apart when the bedding shifted, and Sansa's touch on his arm brought him right back to the thoughts he'd so ardently pushed aside. "Tyrion?" she asked, and he could see her eyes in the moonlight, the smile playing around her lips.

"Oh, fuck it," he muttered, and he rolled into his wife's embrace. She giggled, and Tyrion pulled back. "Are you laughing at me, my lady?" He tried to inject humor into his voice, but he wasn't overly fond of people laughing at him unless it served to get him out of trouble.

Sansa shook her head, a smile still on her lips. "You're just… so excited. What were you waiting for?"

She was giggling for his enthusiasm. _If that's all it takes to make her laugh, so be it._ Tyrion smiled and crawled on top of his wife, and her legs parted to let him kneel between them. He sucked at her neck, and then worked his way down her chest. With her help, he pushed off the straps of her nightgown and revealed her beautiful, creamy white tits and sucked at the pert rosebuds that popped up just for him. He loved the moan she gave at that, pushing her head back into the pillows at his suckle. Then, he pushed up her nightshift to find she wasn't wearing small clothes.

"You really were wanting this, weren't you?" he said, his voice deep with want, and she blushed, but nodded all the same. He moved himself down his wife's body, one kiss at a time, until finally his tongue and fingers are upon her. Her fingers thread through his hair almost familiarly now, and he sucks at her in the ways he learned she liked the previous night. Unlike then, she wasn't as nervous. She reached out to him, this time. She wasn't a maiden anymore, and she knew what to expect, what to do. And this time, as her moans grew louder and her gasps for air more desperate, Tyrion kept pushing his fingers in her faster, sucking and licking at her clit faster until finally his beautiful, sweet young wife unraveled before him. He pulled away his lips, but kept his fingers just inside her, feeling how she continued to quiver from the inside out as pleasure rolled through her body.

As her breathing calmed, and her body finally stilled, he pulled his fingers from her, crawled out from between her legs, and laid by her side. He licked off his fingers, sucking off her salty pleasure, and then closed his eyes.

"Tyrion?" she said, her voice breaking the silence.

"Hmm?"

"Do you… do you not want to continue?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her, and just like last night, she was worried she hadn't pleased him.

"I want nothing more, Sansa, believe me. But I don't want to risk hurting you so soon after I've taken your maidenhead. I want to give you some time to heal before laying with you again."

"Oh," she said, and her face showed relief.

He smiled, leaned over her to kiss her on the lips, and gave her a whispered "good night" before getting back under the blankets and pulling them over both of them.

Tyrion was just about to close his eyes again before her voice came out of the darkness yet again. "Can I please you in another way, my lord?"

Tyrion looked back at her, and she met his gaze unwaveringly. He could tell she was nervous, but she wasn't not afraid. "You don't have to."

"I know. It's just… I want to." Tyrion searched her face, looking for the tell of a lie, but he couldn't find one.

"Are you sure?" he asked, checking again, and she nodded. He wouldn't ask her to put him in her mouth, not tonight. Honestly, he couldn't hardly imagine Sansa doing something like that. When he did imagine it, it was quite the sight, but it also wasn't how he pictured her. That was always what he liked whores to do for him; he never pictured his wife pleasing him in such a way.

With that decision, he took her hand under the covers, pulled up his nightshift, and slowly guided her hand to his cock. Her fingers were uncertain, but they didn't tremble as they found their way round his shaft and made a grip.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Just a bit tighter. There. Just like that," he said, half-moaning. Her hand was small, even smaller than Shae's, but it wrapped clear round his manhood securely in a way his own hand never did. "Now, just move your hand up and down, like how I moved in and out of you last night." Slowly, Sansa began pumping her hand up and down on his shaft, the foreskin pushing and pulling with her grip, exposing his head with a plunge, then covering it again. "Gods," Tyrion let slip out, and he felt his eyes rolling in the back of his head as he pressed into the pillows just as she had done. Without thinking, he reached over, and his fingertips found her breasts again. She gasped, but only moved her body closer to give him better access.

Her hand felt good, but it was a bit dry. Normally, he'd just spit on his hand to keep rubbing it out, but with Sansa here, and already so wet…

"Sansa, would you do something for me?"

"Yes," she said, never pausing in her strokes.

"Would you put some of the wetness from your womanhood on your palm, and then stroke me?"

"What?"

"It'll feel really good. Please," Tyrion said. He opened his eyes to look at her, and he saw she was blushing. Her hand pulled away, and she reached between her own legs, and dragged her palm across her wet cunt before returning it to Tyrion.

That made all the difference. Tyrion couldn't help the groan that escaped his throat then. He closed his eyes and pictured the previous night, of being on top of Sansa, of thrusting into her beautiful, tight cunt, so wet for him, and before he knew it, he was crying out her name again, and he finished on her hand. She started to pull away, startled, but Tyrion put his hand on top of hers, begging her to keep stroking him as he came down from his ecstasy.

When it was finally over, Tyrion opened his eyes and looked at her. His hand went limp, and she pulled her hand away from him, but it was covered in his seed, and she looked like she didn't know what to do with it. Tyrion reached over to his bedside table and found a kerchief, wetted it from a drinking glass, and then washed his seed from his wife's hand. When he was done, he kissed her fingertips before releasing her hand and cleaning his own hand and groin. He turned the cloth over and then cleaned Sansa between the legs. When their mutual messes were cleaned, he threw the rag onto the floor and then closed his eyes, dazed and completely ready for sleep. Before he succumbed to it entirely, he felt Sansa reach out her hand and entwine her fingers with his before resting her head against his shoulder. Gently, he turned his face to kiss her forehead, and then he welcomed sleep's embrace.

The next morning, they woke up to Podrick bringing in breakfast and beginning to tidy up. Tyrion chuckled a bit as Podrick unwittingly picked up his and Sansa cum rag and deposited it onto the day's washing. Sansa rolled her shoulders before picking her head up from the mattress. She gave him a bleary look before smiling, and he kissed her before pulling away and getting out of the bed.

As Tyrion stretched, he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept as well as he had these two nights with Sansa. Maybe it was the sex, but there was something so content about sharing a bed with her that he was actually sleeping through the night for the first time for so many years.

Over breakfast, Shae finally made an appearance to strip the bedding and take away Sansa's laundry. After she was gone, Sansa spoke.

"Tyrion, I was wondering…"

"What were you wondering, my dear?" he asked, buttering his toast.

"I know you're Master of Coin, and that you enjoy being on the small council…" He enjoyed being on the small council, true enough, but he certainly didn't enjoy being Master of Coin. He was much fonder of his previous position, but he wasn't about to gripe to Sansa about that.

"And?" he prompted.

"Well, I was wondering if you would give that up to take me to Casterly Rock?"

Tyrion looked at her, and she held doubt in her eyes, doubt that he would do something like that for her. "You really want to go West?"

Sansa nodded. "I want to leave. It's just…" she pressed her lips together, and Tyrion knew where this was coming from.

"The Tyrells promised to take you to Highgarden after you were to marry Loras, didn't they?"

Sansa looked at him with wide eyes, but then she relaxed, realizing he wasn't mad about the plot that he wasn't supposed to know about. Then she nodded.

Tyrion considered it. Honestly, he'd quite like to go home and get away from his repulsive nephew and sister, and father for that matter. And with Uncle Kevan still in the Riverlands, he might even persuade his father to give him some real responsibility in running Casterly Rock and preparing it for the coming winter. But there was the matter of the Royal Wedding; he had duties as Master of Coin that he couldn't abandon until after that, at the very least. "We can go after the royal wedding," he said, and the smile that lit up her face as he said that was worth every ounce of gold in Casterly Rock.

"Really?" she asked excitedly. Tyrion nodded, and she rushed out of her seat and nearly knocked him from his with the overwhelming hug she gave him then. "We're really leaving," she said, and Tyrion could hear the warmth and safety that that prospect brought for her. He wrapped his arms around her.

"The wedding's still a few months away," he reminded her.

Sansa pulled back from him, and she had small tears of happiness in the corners of her eyes. "I know, but still. We're finally leaving."

After that, she finished her breakfast and went to work on her needlework with the Tyrell ladies again, leaving him with a kiss like the morning before. Tyrion was just about to settle into his ledgers when Shae entered the solar, followed closely by Lord Varys.

"You've said goodbye to Sansa, I take it," he said, his voice soft.

Shae nodded. "I caught her on her way to see Lady Margaery. I told her my family needed me back home." Tyrion nodded, then looked down.

"You have an escort to accompany her?" he asked of Varys.

"I do, my lord. He'll see her safely to Pentos and will not leave her side until she's set up in a suitable home with servants and everything else she might need. He'll need half payment up front, the other half upon his return." Tyrion nodded, and opened up his desk drawer, and took out the pouches of gold and diamonds he had set aside for her. After a moment of hesitation, he finally set them on his desk. He looked up at Shae, but she didn't move. Her eyes were dark, even darker than usual, and somewhat red around the edges. _Is she hurting as much as I am, or more?_ he wondered. Finally, Varys came forward and took up the money.

"Would you like a moment alone, before we leave?" he asked.

Tyrion was about to say "yes," but Shae beat him. "No. I believe we're done here, my lord." With that, she gave him one last curtsy, then turned her back, and walked out of his life forever.

Varys lingered behind, and Tyrion could barely look at him. "I know this hurts now, my lord, but it is for the best. You care for Lady Sansa, I can tell. This could only grow more complicated as you grow more fond for the Stark girl. By ending it now, you can end one love that was never meant to be and try to find a love that may be."

Tyrion nodded, meeting his gaze. "Thank you, Varys."

Varys gave his customary bow, and then left.

For the longest time, Tyrion just sat at his desk, looking at the numbers in front of him. "Fuck this," he said, realizing Sansa would most likely return from her needlework soon, and he didn't want her to find him like this. With that, he grabbed a flagon of wine and went to the library. He hated stairs, but the only other person who frequented the library regularly, Pycelle, hated them even more. He found the top level of the library and a quiet corner with a window overlooking the Blackwater and spent the rest of his day nursing the flagon of wine and letting his tears flow freely, wondering if Shae was on any of the ships he saw sailing away out there. Varys was right; he needed to move on from Shae, and focus on his wife. But that didn't mean he couldn't take this one day to grieve. She had seen him through a lot; the Battle of Green Fork, his time as Hand, the Battle of the Blackwater and his injuries from that. Some of his greatest achievements and worst blows he'd had in his life, she'd been by his side for them. And so he drank to Shae, the companion of one chapter of his life, but also to Sansa, the companion to all the rest.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello there! I know, more smut. But hey, this is pre-RW Sanrion; let's let the honeymooning newlyweds have a bit of happy sexy fun times before the betrayal and angst dry spell, yeah? Also, update: I spent about five hours plotting the next 27 chapters so far that will take us rough equivalent to episode 508 plot wise. Obviously a lot of stuff is changed completely/moved forward/pushed back, but that's about where all the rest of the timelines not yet affected by my plot change are at, so it's a good estimate. I just hope I can keep up this killer pace! Anyway, loving the reviews and feedback, please keep them coming. Til next time!_


	7. Sansa IV

**Chapter 7, Sansa IV**

When Sansa sat up in bed, she felt a familiar warm wetness trickle between her legs: her moonbloood. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Sansa to notice as she had lately eschewed wearing small clothes to bed. Quickly, Sansa reached to her bedside table to find a kerchief to clean up her mess before it went onto their bed.

She'd had her moonblood several times now, and she was no stranger to it any longer, but for some reason this oncoming felt different. She hadn't really considered it yet since marrying Tyrion, but Sansa wasn't quite sure she was ready to be a mother so soon. She'd seen Tyrion and how wonderful he was with Tommen, and Myrcella before she left for Dorne. Though she hadn't thought much of it, she actually thought Tyrion would make quite a good father. Her own father had been very involved with all of her siblings, and she had a hunch Tyrion might be the same. She'd also seen fathers who pay attention to their eldest son and otherwise leave the rest of the children to their mother's domain. And then there were fathers, like King Robert, who barely paid attention to any of their children. With a shudder, she thought of Joffrey. Though she doubted she and Tyrion could have such a monster for a child, and she certainly wouldn't corrupt a child such as Cersei had, she knew she didn't want the burden of raising children to be all on her. She'd always admired the balance that she and her father had in raising the Stark children, and she wanted that for herself.

But with the bloody rag in her hand, she knew she wasn't to have that just yet. And whether or not she was ready, Sansa wasn't sure she would be a good mother. She could try to emulate everything her own mother had done, but frankly, she still felt half a girl. How could she raise a child when she still felt so much like one herself?

Her movement had woken Tyrion, and he looked over. "Your moonblood?" he asked, his tone not particularly concerned, though it might still have been the sleep in his voice.

"Yes." A moment, and then she asked, "Are you disappointed?"

Tyrion rubbed his eyes and then sat up, scooting back to lean on their pillows. "Well, it's hardly as if we're running out of time in your childbearing years," he said, reaching a hand over to rub her side soothingly. She looked at him, and he truly didn't seem disappointed. "Besides," he added with a smile, rubbing his thumb on her hip. "I think I'd prefer to be selfish and have you all to myself for a bit longer before I have to start sharing you."

That brought a smile to Sansa's face, and she felt a bit better. Soon after that, Sansa's new handmaiden, Brella, came in and helped Sansa dress, and helped her find her ladies' cloths and belt.

As they shared breakfast, Sansa thought contently on how Tyrion seemed to be getting better at knowing her, at knowing what to say to comfort her. She hadn't had that kind of reassurance since her father's execution, and she hadn't realized how much she had missed it. She was looking at him fondly, and he caught her staring.

"Am I particularly dashing this morning, or do I have crumbs on my chin?" he asked.

Sansa blushed and shook her head. "Sorry, I'm just thinking."

"Ah. A dangerous pastime that regularly gets me in trouble. Let me know if I can help."

He winked at her, and she smiled; his smirk was contagious, and his flirtatious manner stuck with her. Perhaps it was just the way the morning sunlight picked up the gold in his hair or lit up his eyes, but he actually was particularly dashing this morning. "And maybe you are a bit more handsome than usual this morning, my lord."

His eyebrow raised mischievously, and he looked slyly out the corner of his eye at her, and Sansa returned the look, but before the newlyweds could get up to any trouble, Brella returned, and they gave each other knowing smiles before looking away.

With her moonblood, Sansa didn't particularly feel like going out to the gardens that morning, so she sent Brella to Lady Margaery with her regrets and stayed in and worked at her new chair, kicking her feet up happily on the footstool. True to his word, Tyrion had requested a furniture maker up to their chambers, and Sansa had commissioned a comfortable armchair to match Tyrion's, but hers was to have the seat and back covered in deep gray velvet, rather than Tyrion's preference for leather. She also had a new footstool made with leather on top and the gray velvet to trim around the edges to tie the two chairs together, though Tyrion thought it unnecessary, but this footstool was large enough for both chairs to use, rather than having two separate footrests, which Sansa had decided would look too cluttered in the corner. The existing footstool was moved to their bed chambers, to provide extra seating for when they both were donning or discarding shoes or stockings in the mornings and evenings.

In addition to the footstool, a small desk with beautifully carved legs had been found for Sansa in an empty room, though the top had required some work as it had been damaged by what looked like an entire cask of wine being spilled and allowed to ruin it. Sansa had decided to have it smoothed down, and then a piece of tooled leather stretched and nailed to the top, and now it made a lovely working desk for her projects and writing. It didn't have any drawers, but Tyrion cleared some space on a bookshelf nearby for her to store her notebooks and papers when she wasn't working on them. A merchant also brought up a selection of beautiful silk rugs, and Sansa had had a terrible time deciding between them. In the end, Sansa chose a more sturdy woven rug for their solar in shades of deep red and blue, and lovely swirls of gold thread intertwining the colors throughout. She chose a more delicate rug of soft gray with a pattern of birds that the merchant told her came all the way from Qarth. Looking at the detail, Sansa saw birds that were so exotic, she didn't doubt that the maker had been inspired by the wildlife of faraway lands, and she fell in love with it. There were other touches that Sansa wouldn't mind changing out; the drapes in their solar were perfect for summer, but were a bit skimpy for the oncoming autumn and winter seasons. But she wasn't going to push it too much, as Sansa was hopeful they would be away to Casterly Rock long before it became an issue. In all, their quarters didn't quite feel like home to her, but she was at least comfortable and felt welcomed every time she walked into their chambers, which is more than she had felt since she had come to King's Landing.

As she sat at her chair working on her needlework, she decided that she would use the weirwood tree in her dress for the royal wedding. She was no longer allowed to wear her house's direwolf sigil, as it was a sigil in open rebellion of the throne, but she would proudly wear a symbol of the north, of her home, to represent the north at the royal affair where all the other great families save for the Tullys would be represented. Even in that, Sansa thought she would wear the necklace that Tyrion gave her so that even the Tully colors shone bright at the festivities. Sansa thought about how she would craft the skirt and decided the weirwood tree would be one panel of a split gray silk skirt with a dash of crimson underskirts showing in the middle. On the other side of her gray silk skirts would be a Lannister lion in thread of gold. That should appease her new family that she was there as a lady of House Lannister, as well as of the North. The bodice would also be of gray silk with a panel of crimson silk in the middle beneath front lacings, and she thought she might dare to make it a proper woman's gown with a low cut. Sansa smirked as she tightened a stitch, imagining the torment she might put her lord husband through at wearing something seductive all day for him to look at and not be able to touch. Sansa chuckled. She adored him, and she couldn't lie to herself that she felt quite flattered that she had such an effect on him that he desired her so. But it was sometimes amusing at how predictable her husband could be to the most obvious of flirtations.

But that was much how her parents had been, though she had only caught onto it as she'd grown older. Her mother had a way of touching her father's wrist just below his palm, and he would pause at whatever he was saying or doing, and they would give each other knowing smiles. Whether her parents would rush off to indulge in their wants soon after as had become custom with Sansa and Tyrion, she realized with a blush, Sansa hadn't noticed, but they had their ways with each other that Sansa realized she was starting to have with Tyrion, and that made her happy. Maybe once she had wanted to be Queen above all, but then all she wanted was to get out of King's Landing alive. Now… now, she was quite content in hoping for something akin to her parents' love, and she was so close to having it. All she needed was time to know her husband better, and away from all the people who had ever made her life miserable. She needed to go to Casterly Rock, and there they could make their home.

 _The North on one side and a Lion on the other, and red silk underskirts revealed underneath_ i, Sansa mused on her dress plans with a chuckle. _Yes, that should please Tyrion_


	8. Sansa V

**Chapter 8, Sansa V**

Sansa had the Lannister lion side of her skirt stretched out on her desk, looking at it under the sunlight that came in brighter through the window against which her desk was situated. She was quite engrossed at making sure her stitches were clean and finished when Tyrion sidled up to her. She was going to ignore him for a moment as she counted her stitches, but he slid onto her desk a small, long, neatly-wrapped box with red paper and gold ribbon, and she paused in her counting with a smile.

"What's this for?" she asked, mockingly suspicious as she looked up at him.

He shrugged innocently. "Does a Lannister need a reason to spoil his wife?" He smiled, and Sansa knew it was just generosity, as all his previous gifts had been.

"You really don't have to spoil me, you know," she said, picking up the box anyway and untying the ribbon. The paper came off easily, and she opened the wood box inside to reveal a beautiful bracelet, though it was the most "Lannister" piece of jewelry he'd given her yet; it was a strong yellow gold chain with baubles alternating between gold-set rubies and golden reliefs of lion's heads.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he tilted his head to the side. "My father noticed I had a preference for jewelry that wasn't in line with Lannister colors and wondered if it was my choice or yours that you wouldn't wear them."

"So now you put the burden on me if he asks why I might choose not to wear this?" Sansa said, not giving anything away.

Tyrion grimaced. "I can tell him you don't like rubies much or the way yellow gold looks on you. I just thought it might be time you at least had something in our house colors if you decide you do want to wear them."

Sansa looked at it. Her general dislike for most of House Lannister aside, it was a lovely bracelet. The stones were a bit large, but in their bauble settings, it still felt delicate and light, even a bit fun as they dangled from the chain. She picked it up out of the box and offered it to Tyrion to put on her wrist. She could have done it herself, but she wasn't ignorant of the proud smile whenever she gave him the chance to put a piece of jewelry on her for the first time.

As he did the clasp, Sansa felt the weight of it and quite liked it. With a twist of her wrist, Sansa shook it a bit and liked the way it jingled and spun. She thumbed at one of the rubies before looking back up at him. "It's lovely, thank you." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, and when she drew back, he had a look of relief on his face.

"Did you really think I'd reject your gift?" she asked.

Tyrion tipped his head to the side. "Well, you have made your disdain for us Lannisters quite clear."

At that, she put her arms around his neck, and he found his way to stand between her knees. "Not all of them," she whispered, and she kissed him again, this time more fully, and he nibbled playfully at her bottom lip. When she drew back again, he leaned forward stubbornly, trailing his lips down her neck, then down the neckline of her dress half into her bosom.

"Tyrion," she giggled, putting her hands on his cheeks and drawing him back up, a smile struck across his face. "Can I ask you something?" she said after a moment.

"Anything, my dear," he said in that deep voice of his.

Sansa took a breath and wondered at how to phrase it, not certain how terse a subject it was. "Your brother Jaime is in the Kingsguard."

"Yes?" he was waiting for the question.

"Why hasn't your father named you his heir?"

Tyrion took a breath, and Sansa wondered if she'd upset him with her question. "Because he despises me for killing my mother."

Sansa's brow furrowed. "She died in childbirth."

Tyrion nodded. "And my father's never forgiven me for it."

Sansa shook her head. "No, that's nonsense. Every woman makes that choice."

Tyrion looked at her curiously, and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "A man's bravery is shown on the battlefield, but a woman's courage is proven in the birthing bed. That's our battlefield. Every lady knows that. Every lady knows that when she does her duty of bringing heirs into the world, that's a risk she takes. That's a risk she's prepared for to bring another piece of her lord husband into the world." Sansa paused. "My mother and father loved each other very much, else my mother wouldn't have gone to battle so many times for him." Tyrion looked away at that point. "Forgive me, but Lady Joanna had already given your father Jaime and Cersei. She must have loved him very much to risk childbirth again to give you to him. She knew and made that choice." Sansa took his chin and made him look at her again. "It is never a child's fault when a woman falls in battle." Sansa saw tears in his eyes at that and he tried to look away, but Sansa put her arms around his neck and hugged him. His body pressed tight against hers, and she felt his heavy breathing into her neck, felt the wetness of his tears fall on her silk clad shoulder. "My own grandmother died when my mother was young trying to give birth to a second son after my Uncle Edmure," Sansa said.

"My father's mother died giving birth to my Uncle Gerion," Tyrion added, his voice muffled as he spoke into Sansa's neck.

Sansa pulled back, and Tyrion turned away to hide his wet eyes, but Sansa held him by the chin and dried his eyes with his kerchief. "Well that just makes it even more ridiculous that your father can blame you. I don't care that he's the great and terrible Tywin Lannister, he must be an idiot if he can't forgive you for something that isn't even your fault and see the wonderful man you are."

Tyrion smiled at her. "How is it you can be so much younger than me and yet make me feel like the child?" he asked. Sansa smiled, and then blushed as Tyrion added, "When you're ready, you will be a wonderful mother, you know that?"

"You really think so?" Sansa asked, a bit doubtfully. "I'm still so young."

"For now. But you won't be forever." He paused, then asked. "Are you really prepared to risk that to bring my children into the world?"

Sansa hesitated as she thought about it. She couldn't lie, she was afraid. But she also couldn't deny that she'd imagined their children, some red-haired, others golden-haired, running with her along a sandy beach, running from the waves, a beautiful castle behind them, Tyrion laughing, watching from a distance. She had dreamed it one night, and when she'd woken to Tyrion's peacefully sleeping face, she had been genuinely disappointed that it had all been a dream. It had felt so real, and she had so wanted it to be real.

"I won't deny I'm afraid," she told him as she looked into his deep green eyes. "But yes, I am prepared to risk that to bring our children into the world, so long as you promise me one thing."

"Which is?" he breathed.

Sansa's throat closed up, and she had to pause before she could get the words out. "That you will love all our children unconditionally, with or without me."

Tyrion's face screwed up, and he shook his head. "Of course I swear it. I'll love any piece of you that you willingly give me."

Sansa looked at him, wondering if he really meant what he'd said. She wouldn't ask him, as he hadn't said it in so many words, but it wasn't the first time he'd said such things to her that made her wonder if he truly did love her.

After that, Tyrion shook himself and kissed her, told her he needed to get back to work, and returned to the ledgers at his desk just behind her. Sansa went back to her needlework, and she thought about how it made her feel that Tyrion might truly love her. On the one hand, he was her husband, of course she was glad that he loved her. On the other hand, he was a Lannister. At that, her own mother had taken him for a prisoner, so she had little hope that, no matter how this war ended, her husband and her mother would ever see eye to eye. But wondering at how she felt about Tyrion loving her was always a distraction from the real question she avoided answering for herself: did she love him?

He was romantic, and kind, and she was quite fond of him. And she hadn't lied when she'd told him she was ready to risk her life for her duty to bring children into the world with him. For one, when she was ready, Sansa did look forward to being a mother. She had doubts she'd be a particularly good mother, but hopefully Tyrion would pick up whatever slack she left. But she truly did want to be a mother. She wanted children, as many as her own mother had had; she'd loved having a big family, and she wanted the same for her own children, if she could give that to them. Her mind went back to her dream of her three beautiful children and Tyrion and her by the sea, and she could almost hear the waves, feel the wet sand between her toes.

She didn't know that she loved him yet, but she knew that it was hardly an impossibility at this point. At last, she had scoured over the entirety of the gold thread lion, and she was satisfied with her work. She picked it up, and it was heavy; she supposed she'd have to get used to the extra weight of gold embroidery and cloth of gold now that she was of House Lannister. Though when she thought about it, it really wasn't any heavier that the heavy woolen gowns she'd had during her first winter into spring when she was young. She stood and took a few pins and fixed in place the two panels, weirwood and lion, around her waist. She would have underskirts, of course, but she felt their weight, and the weight was bearable. If anything, she thought she might have to add a few weights to the right side of her skirts so that she wasn't walking about the wedding and feast lopsided, she realized as she chuckled to herself, unpinning the skirts from over top her dress and returning them to her desk.

At that point, Tyrion spoke up as she smoothed them out flat to shine in the indirect sunlight that came through the window. "You'll look very lovely in them once it's finished."

Sansa turned to look at him with a smile. "I know," she said smugly, earning a chuckle from her husband. "Now we just need to make sure you have something just as handsome so you don't embarrass me."

"I'm an embarrassment?" he asked, setting down his quill and leaning back in his chair, and Sansa approached and took a perch on the arm of his chair.

"Only when you don't brush your hair," she said, running her fingers through her curls in the way she knew he liked, and his eyes closed for a moment at her touch. "Or when you wear garish shades of red all the time."

"Garish?" He faked indignation.

"Yes, garish. You should wear gold more," Sansa told him. "It brings out the green in your eyes."

He smiled at that. "Well, I suppose I'll have to have something new made in gold for the wedding."

"Yes, you will," she said with her own smile, and she bent over to kiss him. Tyrion's hands played at her waist, smoothing over the bodice of her dress intimately, but Sansa pulled away, knowing he still had work to do. "We can have time for ourselves after dinner, my lord. I do believe you're the one who commented on still having quite a lot of work today?"

"Hmm," Tyrion groaned at her, half a growl really, and Sansa chuckled as she turned round and left. On her way out, she nearly ran into Podrick.

"Apologies, my lady," he said with a blush that Sansa thought had to be permanent this time, as it came to his cheeks every time he so much as set eyes on her.

"You're quite alright, Podrick. Could you send down to the kitchens for a roast for dinner? My lord husband's been at the ledgers quite a bit today, and I think he'd appreciate it."

Podrick smiled at her and nodded his head. "I'll go now, my lady."

"Thank you." With that, Sansa followed him out of her and Tyrion's chambers, though she proceeded out to the gardens rather than to the kitchens. While there, she took in the lovely sunny day and picked flowers for her and Tyrion's dinner table. She didn't take many, but just enough to fill her favorite golden vase that had engraved leaves cascading down the sides of it. It was a wedding gift from Margaery that Sansa had grown very fond of the past few weeks of her marriage. She and Tyrion took turns filling it with flowers; she would pick them herself, or Tyrion would send for roses or peonies or some more exotic flower to be surrounded by greenery.

After Sansa had returned and arranged the flowers in the vase, she found herself sitting by a window, happily thumbing through the baubles on the bracelet Tyrion had gifted her. Just a few months ago, she never could have imagined she'd be this happy, especially not with a Lannister. She would have thought anybody who told her otherwise that they were completely mad. But here she was. She looked into the solar and spied him sitting at his desk. She thought of his tears to her earlier; she'd never had a man open up to her like that before. Once, she might have thought herself discomfited, but with Tyrion, it felt like paying a debt. He comforted her, and she him. _I really am becoming a Lannister_ , she told herself, though she didn't dislike the thought as much as she once did.

Idly, she wondered what would happen if Robb won the war. Joffrey's head would be on a spike, and perhaps the Queen's too. Sansa wasn't sure about Tywin Lannister; if he bent the knee, perhaps Robb would call peace. But who would take the Iron Throne? Surely not Robb, he had no claim to it. And Robb's justification for the war was that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were all bastards, so that ruled out him allowing Tommen to take the Iron Throne. Did Robb mean to declare for Stannis Baratheon? If so, why hadn't he done it already? She hadn't heard that he had, and she had no doubt that Joffrey would have informed and punished her the moment her traitorous brother had declared for his own equally traitorous uncle. What was Robb's endgame? Unless he really just wanted to get Sansa back and go back to Winterfell and leave the South to figure out the rest. But then what would happen to Tyrion?

Sansa fidgeted with her bracelet _. I wouldn't let anyone hurt him. Not after he's protected me and cared for me so well,_ Sansa swore to herself _. Tyrion wouldn't let anyone hurt me; I won't let anyone hurt him._

But what if Robb lost? Sansa shook her head quickly of that thought. She didn't even want to think about it. Father dead, Bran, Rickon, and Arya lost. Jon gone to the Wall, sworn to remain there. If Robb lost, she would lose what little family she had left. She was almost in tears just at the thought, but she shook them away. No, she wouldn't even think about it. Everything she'd heard said Robb was winning all the battles. He wasn't going to lose. He might decide on a peace, now that Sansa was happily married, but he wasn't going to lose. He couldn't. He mustn't.

Sansa needed a distraction from the dark turn her thoughts had taken. She stood and found a bolt of pale gray silk that Tyrion had bought for her. She wanted to make a dress, but there was so much of it, she'd also decided to make a coverlet for their bed. Nothing too heavy, just something to add a little extra weight to their bed coverings to stave off autumn's nighttime chill without having to light a fire.

She set to work on cutting the fabric, choosing the bindings for the edges, and found a dark gray wool in a light knit to fix to the underneath side for warmth. After that, she picked her embroidery thread, planned the pattern, and began working on the large project. She knew she should finish her dress first, rather than starting yet another project, but she couldn't help herself. She had asked Tyrion about using her house sigil on the coverlet, as she had only been banned from wearing her sigil; neither the queen nor Joffrey had said a word about not having anything with her sigil, and Tyrion quite agreed with her. It would be their little secret. At the foot of the coverlet, on her side of the bed would be a direwolf's head, and the pattern of the fur would merge into a Lannister lion on Tyrion's side. She was glad she wouldn't have to look at the crimson of their current bedding all the time once it was covered by the pale gray silk. And finally, after over a year, she would have something with her sigil on it, to remind her that she was a Stark, first and foremost, always.

And Tyrion allowed her that, gladly. No, not allowed. He'd yet to disallow Sansa from a single thing so far in their marriage. On the contrary, anything that made her happy, he heartily encouraged. As much as she hated to speak ill of her home, she'd honestly never had this much freedom in a relationship; though to be fair, she'd still been a child when she was at home, not the woman Tyrion saw and treated her as. He let her avoid his family's dinners when she didn't want to go, which was quite often, though she did go sometimes if only to provide support by Tyrion's side and drink with him when his father or the queen would speak of duty and loyalty, or Joffrey provide some cruel taunt. He let her have anything she wanted. She couldn't leave the city, per Lord Tywin's orders; Tyrion actually had asked if he could send her to Casterly Rock ahead of him, as he doubted Joffrey really wanted her at the wedding anyway, but Lord Tywin had insisted she stay and represent their union at the wedding. But with the freedom Tyrion gave her within their household, within their marriage, she hardly cared. The royal wedding was only weeks away, and then they would be away to Casterly Rock, and she might never have to see that miserable, slimy sadist ever again. Sansa stuck pins into the edging of the coverlet with a satisfied smile at the thought. She missed her family, but they'd want her to be happy above all, and she truly was. It was the next best thing.

 _Margaery_ _was right_ , Sansa thought as she trimmed some fabric to make a neat corner wrap on the binding. _Tyrion has made me happier than Loras could have. Happier than almost anyone could have._ She paused in her work and touched her bracelet. _He really does make me happy._

* * *

 _A/N: Another Sansa chapter in a row, breaking pattern finally. Initially I was going to make the bracelet scene part of Tyrion's POV at the beginning of next chapter, but it came off better from Sansa, and then I realized how much of Sansa's brilliant inner monologue and perspective I hadn't been picking up on, so this chapter was born in between. It's very mushy, but I hope you'll forgive me because we all know what's coming up soon. Hope you like their tiny bit of happiness before all seven hells breaks loose._


	9. Tyrion IV

**Chapter 9, Tyrion IV**

The sun had gone down hours ago, but rather than spending the evening with his wife, Tyrion was still trying to figure out how to save money on this ridiculous wedding. "Seventy seven courses," Tyrion muttered under his breath, cursing Joffrey, Margaery, Olenna, his father, Cersei, anyone involved with planning this monstrosity. He had Olenna breathing down his neck on one side that it needed to be extravagant and his father on the other that House Lannister had quite enough expenses with the war. House Tyrell may be paying for half the cost, but that meant every saving Tyrion found for his own house, half went to House Tyrell. In addition, Olenna seemed to be adding expenses every day, though thankfully some of them he presented to his father, who would put Olenna right himself.

At least once it was over, he could rid himself of this thankless job and take his wife to the West. He looked to his left at his Lannister seal, wax, and crucible and wondered if his letter had ever reached the Stark camp. He'd sent it weeks ago and was anxious for a reply, for anything, but before he could dwell on it, Sansa knocked on the door frame, alerting him to her presence. She didn't need to as these were her rooms as well, and he'd never asked her; but he supposed she'd noticed how startled he could get coming out of his thoughts, and he appreciated the gesture.

"Good evening, my dear," he said, taking in the sight of her in a crimson silk dressing gown. She still refused to wear the Lannister colors for his father, for Cersei, for anyone at court, but she had taken to wearing them for him. He had teased her once about being his Lannister lady and dressing her in crimson, but she'd blanched at the suggestion, and so he'd let it go. But unbeknownst to him, two weeks later, she had put on a show of Lannister nightgowns and dressing gowns she'd had made, only for his eyes. It touched him more than he could say that she would do something so specifically for his benefit. Sansa came to his side, knelt by his chair, kissed him on the cheek, her lips light on his scar, and then wrapped her arms around him. With a smile, Tyrion put his arm around her neck and kissed her sweet-smelling hair as she leaned her head into his shoulder.

"Working more on the wedding plans?" she asked.

"On the budget at least. At least I don't have to bake the damned pies, too," he said, a feeble attempt at humor through his completely apathy toward the whole thing.

"Margaery won't tell me any of the plans. She won't tell anyone, actually. She wants it to be a marvelous surprise," Sansa said coyly, but Tyrion smiled, knowing exactly what she was getting at.

"And you're too curious to wait, I suppose?"

Sansa smirked and nodded, and Tyrion chuckled.

"So?" she prompted. "What do the numbers say?" She giggled. "How many singers will there be? Jugglers, fire breathers… I don't even know what else." Her eyes shone bright.

Tyrion had seen her happy since their wedding, but he hadn't really seen her this excited. All this, what he was budgeting for the Tyrell girl, this should have been Sansa's. She deserved it. If Sansa was vicariously excited for the glorious royal wedding she was denied, who was he to tamp her enthusiasm?

With a put-upon groan, Tyrion flipped away from the seventy-seven course budget and guest list of seven hundred seventy seven guests and the costs of putting them all up until he reached the budgets for the entertainers. Half of the writing was scratched out as he and Olenna had passed the ledger back and forth, a passive aggressive money war waged with ink. "It looks like there are currently 5,000 dragons worth of singers, 2,000 dragons worth of fire breathers. 1,000 dragons of jugglers, though there may be more of them, they just don't get paid all that much. They're barely half a step above a fool. And..." An ambiguous addition in a hand that was neither his nor his father's nor Lady Olenna's caught his attention. "And 1,000 dragons for a re-enactment, whatever that is." Tyrion's brow furrowed, but he moved on, making a mental note to track down whatever that particular expenditure was.

"And all of that is in addition to the enormous expenses of housing and feeding all of the guests for the entirety of their stay, not merely the feast. And all of the decorations and extra guards to pay for, as well." Tyrion leaned back into Sansa's embrace. "Satisfied?"

Sansa smiled. "Yes. At least I know now you actually do have a lot of work and aren't just ignoring me."

Tyrion snorted without humor. "Oh my lady, believe me when I say I can think of one hundred things I'd rather be doing with you in our bed chambers in this moment rather than looking at these damned numbers."

Tyrion closed his eyes and took a breath, and he felt Sansa lean in to his ear, and she whispered, "Maybe take a break for a while and show me two or three of them?"

Tyrion opened his eyes, and looked at his blushing wife. It wasn't often she was so forthright about wanting to lay with him, but he was always pleasantly surprised when she was. With a smile, he leaned forward and took her hand. "Lead the way, my lady." With a giggle, Sansa stood, and they half-ran to their bed chambers.

It was halfway to morning before Sansa fell asleep in his arms. Idly, he ran his fingers through her beautiful hair as she breathed softly in her slumber. He knew he ought to return to his work, but every time he so much as formed the notion of rising from bed in his mind, every fiber of his being swatted it away, keeping him firmly in bed with his wife.

The moonlight beamed into their rooms through the windows, and the indirect light of it made Sansa's fair skin glow as if she herself were the moon, a lunar maiden in his arms. When he took her west, he wondered if she would stay out of the sun and keep her fair complexion? Or would she grow tan, as most of his cousins were? With a smile, he imagined Sansa with freckles all across the bridge of her nose. She already had a few just since coming to King's Landing that she'd not had in Winterfell. Sun kisses, his aunt Genna had called them when Cerenna had asked about the freckles appearing on her cheeks. _Can't say I'd blame the sun for wanting to kiss her,_ he mused, and he kissed her forehead. She murmured in her sleep, and Tyrion heard his name softly amongst the other gibberish.

He adored when she said his name in sleep. He'd never thought to be the fond subject of anyone's dreams, let alone a woman so beautiful as she, and yet it was more and more often that she would say his name. She would say those of her family, as well: Robb, Father, mother, Arya, Bran, Rickon, even Jon. But it was Tyrion whose name graced her unconscious lips more than anyone else he'd heard, and he felt a distinct pride in that.

"I love you," he whispered to her. He hadn't been able to bring himself to say it to her properly, not yet, but it was the truth. It wasn't that he didn't want to say it to her, he very much did. But every time the words played at his lips, his sister's threat echoed in his mind. "One day I pray you love someone," Cersei had told him. "I pray you love her so much, when you close your eyes, you see her face. I want that for you. I want you to know what it's like to love someone, truly love someone, before I take her from you."

Sansa was that someone for him, of that he had no doubt, and it terrified him. The prospect of his enemies finding out that she was that someone. While Sansa may show her affection for him in small but appropriate ways in public, something Tyrion didn't discourage as it seemed to please his father that Sansa was a proper Lady of House Lannister for it, Tyrion was more reserved. He did his duty and was a proper lord and gentleman for her in public, but he withheld the true extent of his regard in front of anyone else. He feared for her safety if anyone knew just how much he loved his young bride. She was his wife, his lover, but he knew his family and the rest of court still viewed her as a prisoner, first and foremost. He tried to do everything to betray that arrangement to Sansa, and she seemed content with it, but there was only so much he could do to give her freedom within a slightly larger cell she now shared with him.

He worried for her. His father had been abnormally uncaring about Robb Stark the past few Small Council meetings. He knew Robb Stark was on his way north to the Twins for Edmure Tully to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters, and Tyrion thought that would be cause for alarm. Surely that would result in an alliance, and Frey had no small number of men. Certainly enough to plague the Lannister armies further. He would have expected his father to order his uncle to intercept them, to keep them occupied and dwindle their forces further before they could reach the Twins, but Tywin Lannister seemed rather unconcerned other than to say that he and Kevan had a plan in place to deal with the Starks after the wedding.

He looked at Sansa and wondered what would happen between them if her family died in this war. Would she hate him? He didn't know if he could bear that. Would she let him comfort her? He couldn't imagine so, not if his father was the source of their downfall. He wrapped his arms a bit tighter around Sansa's shoulders, and she nuzzled her face in his chest hair.

 _Gods, I love her,_ he thought to himself, feeling her breath on his bare skin. He felt a familiar rush of blood to his loins, but he ignored it. He'd had to become quite good at that, lately. Just about everything Sansa did appealed to him. Even now as she slept, he wanted her. He always wanted her. Gods, he just wanted to take her away to Casterly Rock and lock them in their chambers all day and night and just make love to her over and over again. The thought of her blushes and gasps and the way her body shuddered as he gave her pleasure gave him ache again, but he pushed it aside. She was more to him that just something to lust after. She was his muse, his friend, his companion, his confidant, his everything. If she never wanted to lay with him again, he would agree to it and be happy that he could still remain at her side. He might become frustrated, but he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy, no matter the personal cost.

He never thought he'd feel this way again after Tysha. He'd thought maybe Shae would fill the void, but Sansa made him remember just how deep and intense true love could be. It was as if he'd had his head shoved under the water so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe until Sansa pulled him back to the surface.

Dawn was near; the sky outside their window was turning from black to inky purple, and soon it would lighten to red, orange, and pink. He yawned, realizing he'd not got a wink of sleep all night. With contentment, Tyrion turned into Sansa and settled himself into their pillows. Her arms adjusted to wrap around his neck, and he rested his head in her bosom, his arm around her waist, holding her tight to him. He barely remembered falling asleep as he counted Sansa's breaths, matched to his own.

 _My wife,_ he thought happily, and he fell to sleep's embrace just as the morning birds began their song.


	10. Sansa VI

**Chapter 10, Sansa VI**

Sansa hummed "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" as she worked on the coverlet for her and Tyrion's bed. She'd never cared much for the song before, she'd always thought it too bawdy, but she and Tyrion had had a bit too much to drink the night previous, and she'd got him to sing it for her, and the tune had been stuck in her mind ever since. He'd surprised her in having a lovely, deep singing voice. She tried not to make a fuss over it as she knew it would just make him self-conscious of it, but she had already begun plotting to have him sing more often. She had him drinking less wine in general, but ever since Tyrion had deduced how to water the stuff down to Sansa's taste, she'd started taking on his habit with him; lately, the only times Tyrion drank in excess were those when he drank with her. Occasionally they would invite Ser Bronn or Podrick to join them, but more often than not it was just the two of them, and their drinking games would end in giggles and drunken fumbles to undress each other before stumbling into bed.

In all, it wasn't the married life Sansa had expected for herself; she'd certainly never imagined overindulging in wine as a regular occurrence of her marriage, but it suited them. It just happened, and that was what their marriage truly was, when Sansa thought about it. They were never meant to be together, but now that they were, they chose to make the best of things in the most unexpected ways.

When the door to their chambers opened, Sansa expected it to be Tyrion, as he'd promised to return to her for luncheon. But when she looked up, she paled as she saw not her husband but Joffrey. She tried not to let the fear show on her face, as she knew only too well how he enjoyed that, but she was on edge more than she had been since she'd married Tyrion more than two months ago; Joffrey never visited their chambers. Whenever he wanted to see Sansa or Tyrion, he preferred to call them to court to challenge them in front of everyone else, not see them here in their own home.

"Your Grace," Sansa greeted, setting aside the coverlet tenderly and rising to greet him. Sansa looked at the door, and whatever kingsguard had accompanied him seemed to be remaining outside. Sansa wasn't sure if that was a good thing or bad. If he meant to attack her, he probably would have brought the guard in to hold her down. But maybe he meant to overpower him herself, and the kingsguard was meant to act as a lookout? Sansa looked at the poker set by their hearth, but she shook the thought from her mind. If she attacked in defense of herself, she was signing her own death sentence. _Tyrion, where are you?_ she thought to herself, hoping that her panic was for naught, but wishing her husband were here all the same.

"I've just come from a small council meeting, my lady. We received some wonderful news by raven this morning. Care to make a guess as to what it was?"

Sansa felt a stone drop into her belly. She shook her head. "I haven't a clue, Your Grace."

"No, you never do, do you?" Joffrey's lips curled up in a grim smile, and suddenly Sansa wished she were sitting down as she waited for the news of whatever could make a sadist like him happy. "Apparently your traitor brother is dead, and your mother."

Sansa felt all the air leave her lungs, and her head spun to where she wanted to reach out to steady herself, but she couldn't, she could only stand there until he left. "Not sure exactly how it happened, only that it happened at your Uncle Edmure's wedding at the Twins. There was only so much room on the raven's scroll, but I do intend to ask Lord Walder to send a full account. I hope it was long, and drawn out and bloody for your traitorous family. Not the merciful death that I gave your father.

Sansa stayed silent, waiting for him to leave, waiting for Tyrion to come back, waiting for a chance to collapse. Tears welled up at her eyes, but she dared not let them fall, not yet. She felt her hands shaking, and she balled up her hands into fists behind her skirts, feeling her nails dig into her palms. She tried to focus on that pain to drive away the tears.

The door opened again, and Sansa saw the queen. "The king has told you, then?" There was no mercy in her eyes, no pity. She didn't seem to relish Sansa's hidden pain as Joffrey did, but she didn't care, either.

"Yes, Your Grace. I'm glad the war is at an end." It was all Sansa could force herself to choke out.

"As are we all," Cersei replied, and she reached out to Joffrey. "Come, Joffrey. We have so much to celebrate." She held out her hand, but Joffrey wouldn't take it.

"Get out," a voice growled, and Sansa looked up again to see her husband staring daggers at his sister and nephew.

"That's no way to speak to your—" Cersei started, but Tyrion just opened the door wider and stepped aside, gesturing for them to leave.

"Get out," he repeated. "Now."

Joffrey sneered. "Better get that wolf bitch pregnant soon, uncle," he said, finally following his mother out. "Winterfell needs a Lannister lord, now."

Tyrion closed the door behind them, and Sansa sat back down as it was just the two of them alone.

Her fingertips gripped into the coverlet she'd been making.

"Sansa," Tyrion started, but she interrupted him.

"Did you know?" Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"What?" he asked, his voice soft, and he took a few slow steps toward her.

"Did you know?" she asked, her voice louder this time, her eyes fixed on her embroidery. "Did you know about this?" She looked at him then, and his eyes widened, realizing what she was asking him. "Did you know about this and you didn't tell me?"

"Sansa, no. _No_." He closed the gap between them and tried to take her hands, but she ripped them away from him, and the coverlet she'd been gripped onto fell to the floor.

Sansa stood then. She had to get away from him, had to get away from the coverlet, had to get away from his stupid lion brooch and the crimson velvet hangings on their bed, and the golden bowl holding the fruit. She went to the window in the corner and looked out, away from all of it.

She didn't even know how she felt. Furious, confused, devastated, overwhelmed. It all hit her over and over again, wave after wave, and it was nauseating and exhausting. It was a moment that wouldn't end.

She felt Tyrion's hand on her hip, and she felt an anger she'd never known well up inside of her. Like a true wolf, she lashed out, and as she turned to him, she struck him across the face so hard he stumbled back onto the chaise. For a moment she felt pity, guilt for striking him, but then the pain came back, and all that came out of her lips was a growl. "Don't you dare touch me." She meant it to sound fierce, furious, but a sob came with her words that betrayed her pain.

Her breaths came harder, and she grabbed at her middle, trying to keep herself from falling apart, but she collapsed onto her knees all the same. She couldn't see anything anymore through the tears that fell from her eyes. She could see light and dark, washes of color, but no more than that.

Suddenly she felt so very tired, and she leaned back, her head resting against the cold stone wall beneath the window. She heard someone sobbing, great wails of pain, and it took her a moment to realize it was her.

A figure approached her slowly, and she realized it was the outline of her husband, kneeling before her. Through tears, she saw him reach out to take her elbow. She tried to pull away, but he caught her hand and put it to his cheek. Softly, he put his lips to her wrist and kissed her there, as he had a thousand times before.

She wept, but she didn't pull away. She didn't have the strength left to pull away from him any longer. Slowly, he pulled her forward by the wrist, then the elbow, and the next thing she knew, his arms were around her, and she was breathing in the comforting scent of her husband's chest. His hands moved at her shoulders, rubbing her in soothing circles that were so familiar.

Fury welled up in her again, and her fingers dug into his tunic. She clawed into the leather. She wanted to rip at him in anguish, to tear him apart in her fury, to show him what happens when you hurt a wolf, but she couldn't.

If she did, she'd have no one.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry, but it had to happen eventually.


	11. Tyrion V

**Chapter 11, Tyrion V**

It was barely early afternoon, but already Tyrion felt exhausted. He'd been exhausted ever since news of the so-called Red Wedding had come to the Capital that morning just over a week ago now. Just watching Sansa's grief in the days that had followed, trying to get her to eat, to let Brella bathe her and brush her hair, to get her to dress and just sit in the gardens for an hour or so each day to get her out of their rooms that felt more like a tomb than home, he was exhausted. But no matter how tired he was at his wife's pain, he knew it was nothing to what she was going through. At the moment, she was in the gardens with Margaery Tyrell, and he could only hope the Tyrell girl would get Sansa to feel lighter from her pain, if only for the briefest of moments.

Tyrion leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He barely slept at night as he held Sansa's shaking, sobbing form until she finally succumbed to sleep in the hours before dawn, but even then, Tyrion had a hard time falling asleep after her as his mind guiltily tried to think of anything he could do for her in the following day, but there was never anything. Bring her lemon cakes, give her a gift, bring her flowers, all the romantic things he'd done for her since they'd wed. All completely useless and shallow ways to try to alleviate her pain for even a moment. He was at a loss. He had no answers. Of all the books he'd read and great men he'd spoken to, he had no answers on how to help his wife, and it was equally maddening, infuriating, and disheartening.

He'd tried to shield her from the details of what had happened to Robb and Catelyn Stark, but unfortunately Podrick informed him that Joffrey had intercepted him and Sansa as he escorted her back to their chambers from the gardens the day before, and Joffrey had told her about how Catelyn's throat had been cut, her body thrown in the river, and worse, that they had sewn Greywind's head onto Robb Stark's body. Tyrion had felt his stomach turn at that, imagining the man little more than a boy that he'd last seen at Winterfell, turned into a freak monstrosity. His brother by law.

He had little love for Robb Stark, as cold as he'd been the last time Tyrion had met him on his way south from the Wall, but the boy had thought Tyrion an accomplice in attempting to murder Bran, to be fair. As had Lady Catelyn. As much as she'd wanted him dead, he'd admired the woman, the lengths she was willing to go to in order to protect her children. Truth be told, he had been envious of that motherly devotion; his Aunt Genna had cared for him well enough, but he'd never known motherly love like that. Even seeing it secondhand, he couldn't imagine losing that, and Sansa had lost her mother and brother in one fell swoop, not long after her father. Her younger brothers were likely dead at Theon Greyjoy's hands. Her little sister was likely dead, missing ever since Ned Stark's arrest. Sansa was an orphan now, and completely alone.

Tyrion remembered Jon Snow, though. He knew his wife and Jon hadn't been that close; Sansa had taken after her mother in thinking a bastard born less than her true born siblings, but Tyrion resolved to send a raven to Jon at Castle Black and ask him to write to her, to comfort her. She might not have cared for him much before in her youth, but he was the closest she had to family now, and Tyrion wanted to make sure she knew she had someone who wasn't a Lannister.

It was ironic, really. All his life, women had touched him and cared for him only because he was a Lannister, because of his Lannister gold. Now, Sansa cared for him in spite of it. If she still cared for him; he wasn't sure. She curled into his side at night and cried in his arms when she couldn't hold it in during the day, but grief makes people desperate for the smallest of comforts. After Joffrey had told her what happened to her family, she'd collapsed into Podrick's arms halfway down a corridor, unable to hold it in until she made it back to their chambers.

Tyrion's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. For a moment, he expected it to be Sansa, but no, the door opened, and his cousin Ty entered.

"Afternoon, Ty," Tyrion said, rising from his desk.

"Cousin," Tywin Frey greeted him, and Tyrion saw he had two parcels in his hands, one rather large, the other much smaller.

"What's this?" Tyrion asked, looking at the two boxes wrapped in simple brown paper and twine.

Ty looked to the side, not quite meeting Tyrion's gaze. "They're from Robb and Catelyn Stark. In reply to the letter you sent them weeks ago. They sent them before they left Riverrun for the Twins, and I only just returned from the Riverlands."

Tyrion bowed his head and closed his eyes. Of course. He'd written to them after their wedding night, a secret from Sansa, and asked if they'd like to send wedding gifts for her; he also gave his assurances that he would treat her well, however much that would mean to them, but mostly he wanted Sansa to have something from her family to commemorate their marriage.

And they'd only now arrived, just after their deaths.

"Thank you, cousin. If you wouldn't mind refraining from telling my father or sister, I'd appreciate it." He may be a Frey, something Sansa might detest even more than a Lannister at the moment, but he actually had a fondness for the boy, his Aunt Genna's eldest grandson.

Ty nodded his head and left, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, Tyrion mulled over whether he should give them to Sansa at all. Surely they would just bring her more pain? But Tyrion shook his head; she might cry now, but she'd appreciate having something from them, the last gifts she'd ever have from them. Perhaps he should at least open them, to make sure that they wouldn't bring her too much grief? But again, he decided that they were hers. He left them as they were, though he moved them onto the footrest by their chairs in the solar.

Tyrion rid himself of the notion of getting anymore work done as the gifts loomed ahead of him. He would have to be there to support her. She'd barely said ten words to him since the news broke, and he knew this would hurt again. Tyrion poured himself a glass of wine, and then set out a second glass for Sansa.

At last, the door opened to their chambers, and Tyrion sat up straight as Podrick tenderly led Sansa in by the arm, her sewing basket in Podrick's other hand. He set down the basket, and Tyrion waved for him to leave them alone. As always, Sansa made to go back to bed, but Tyrion stood. "Sansa?" he asked, keeping his voice as soft as possible.

She stopped and turned to face him, but she didn't say anything.

"Would you come sit with me for a moment?" Tyrion gestured to her chair, and as she walked slowly to sit down, Tyrion poured her glass of wine and handed it to her as she was settled, but she just set it aside on the table.

Tyrion stood before her; her eyes were blank. He didn't think she even noticed the parcels, such was the haze she'd been living in for the past few days. Tyrion set aside his wine and knelt before her, taking her hands. Gently, he pressed his lips to the back of her fingertips; her hands were cold as ice. He knew grief did things to the body, but it concerned him all the same. "Sansa," he began, looking up at her. "I have something to tell you. This… this may hurt a bit, but I hope, in time, it'll help you grieve, help you hold on to your family."

Her brow furrowed ever so slightly, so Tyrion at least knew she heard his words, even if she didn't understand him yet. "Shortly after we wed, I wrote to your family to ask if they'd like to send wedding gifts for you. I wrote to them, promising to treat you well, to care for you and protect you. Mostly, I wanted you to feel like you had some acceptance from them for our wedding."

Tyrion saw tears welling up in her eyes already. "I didn't hear back from them for a very long time, and I thought maybe they'd chosen to ignore my letter, just to spite me. I would understand that, and so I didn't mention it to you." Tyrion took a breath. "But today, one of my cousins delivered these parcels for you." He took one of his hands away from hers and gently laid it on the smaller of the boxes, drawing her attention to them, and Sansa's gaze took them in.

"They're from mother and Robb?" she asked quietly, her voice hoarse with sobs and disuse.

Tyrion nodded. "They are. I haven't opened them, but they're yours. Your family wanted you to have them." Tyrion felt something catch in his throat, and he had to swallow it. Just watching her grief was enough to take away his voice at times, but he had to be strong for her. "I can leave, if you want—"

"No," she said quietly, and Tyrion slowly nodded his head. Gently, he stood and pulled away from her before taking a seat at his chair.

Sansa just sat there and looked at the boxes for a while before finally reaching forward for the smaller, her hands shaking. A tear creeped down her beautiful cheeks, and Tyrion reached into his doublet for a kerchief, and laid it on the small table between their chairs for her to use.

She pulled apart the twine bow, and the paper pulled away easily to reveal a wooden box with a Direwolf's head burnished into the top. On top of the box was a letter, and Sansa set the box in her lap to read the letter. As she read it, she cried, but then chuckled for a moment before crying again. Tyrion found himself curious as to what was in the letter, but he didn't ask. Not today, anyway.

Finally, after Tyrion was certain she'd read the letter three times over at least, she set the letter aside on the table and opened the box in her lap. In it was a necklace, a simple gold chain with a large emerald pendant. "My mother wore this when she was wed to my father," Sansa said softly. "And her mother Minisa Whent when she married my grandfather Hoster Tully. I was going to wear it on my wedding day, before all this happened."

Tyrion cursed himself for not writing to Robb and Catelyn the moment he learned they were to be wed; Catelyn Stark might have sent the necklace in time for the wedding if he had, and at least Sansa could have had that bit of family tradition. But what was done was done, at least Sansa had it to cherish now.

Sansa set aside the necklace and reached out for the larger parcel. It wasn't a rigid box, and when Sansa pulled apart the twine, the paper pulled back to reveal a lady's winter cloak. On top of it was a simple note, unfolded, just pinned to the cloak. She brushed her fingertips over the writing there, and then laid the note aside on the table, and Tyrion read it:

 _I love you, sister. Winter is coming, as father always said it would. Stay strong, and stay safe. I will have you by my side again as soon as I can, I promise. Love, Robb._

Tyrion let out a sigh as Sansa stood and shook the cloak out. It was a beautiful garment: long, dark gray wool lined with black fur, with a white and gray fox fur at the collar and wolf's head clasps at the neck. As she laid the cloak across the arm of her chair, Tyrion also saw she had leather gloves in her hand. They looked to be soft, gray, doeskin with the dire wolf signal tooled onto the back of the hand, and a wolf's paw print tooled into the palm. Sansa sat back down and ran her fingers over the design. "I hope I can keep it," she muttered softly.

Tyrion approached her for the first time since she began unboxing the gifts, and he laid his hand over hers still on the gloves. "I won't let anyone take these from you, I swear it."

She didn't look at him right away, but she nodded. A moment passed, then a whisper. "Do you think I could have my brother's bones?"

Tyrion hesitated. "I can try," he answered, not sure how much sway he would have with his father and Walder Frey.

"I want them sent to Casterly Rock for when we arrive. Not to Roose Bolton," she added in a growl, and he nodded.

"I'll have them sent wherever you think is best."

Sansa nodded, then met his eyes. She was so pale, it nearly broke him. He stepped forward, and she leaned into him, weeping into his shoulder.

They stayed there for a long while before Sansa finally pulled away from him. Tyrion reached over to the table for his kerchief and dabbed her face dry. She took the kerchief from his hands and blew her nose into it before she met his gaze again.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "For pushing you away."

Tyrion shook his head, though the bruise on his cheek from where she'd struck him still hurt.

"I hit you and screamed at you and hated you, and you didn't deserve it." Tyrion heard guilt and shame in her voice, and the last thing she needed right now was something else to make her feel horrid.

"You were in pain, Sansa," Tyrion said gently. "I would never hold that against you."

Sansa nodded. "Everything felt wrong. Everything…" She took a breath and closed her eyes, and Tyrion let her gather her thoughts. He'd let her take all the time she needed if it meant she was actually going to talk to him about it. "The last I'd heard was that Robb was winning all his battles. I didn't want to believe it, but I could tell Joffrey was telling the truth. I didn't trust him, or Cersei, or you, or myself. I just…" She opened her eyes again, and Tyrion saw the pain and guilt that resided there. "I lashed out at you because you were the only person I could lash out against."

"I know," he said, taking her hands in his.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "Will you forgive me?"

"Always, Sansa." He cradled the back of her neck and pulled her into his arms again. "I will always forgive you anything."

He put his wife to bed early that evening, with essence of nightshade to help her sleep. She fell asleep with her cloak spread out on the bed, her face leaned into the fur collar. Tyrion watched her for a while, wine in hand, just letting his gaze linger over the rise and fall of her bust in the gray silk nightgown, the way her auburn hair spread out and streaked through the white gray fur of the cloak's collar. Even in grief, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. With half a mind to finish the work he hadn't done earlier in the day, he quietly left her to sleep.

Just as he sat at his desk, Podrick opened the door more loudly than normal.

"Quiet, Pod. Sansa's asleep."

"Apologies my lord, it's just… My lord, your brother, Ser Jaime. He's returned."

Tyrion felt the wind knocked out of him. He looked back at the door to his bed chambers, then back to Pod. He didn't want to leave Sansa, but he had to see Jaime. He hadn't seen him in years, not since Winterfell. "Stay here until I return, in case Sansa wakes and needs anything."

With that, he left to find his long-lost brother. A twinge of guilt stole over his heart as he looked to where the parcel wrappings still sat on the footstool. Sansa would never have the same hope for her own brother. But he pushed his guilt aside and went to find one of the few family members he actually loved and held in his heart as dearly as he held his wife.

* * *

A/N: A longer chapter to follow up the last one. As for Sansa's reaction last chapter, I know it was vicious, but GRRM gave us all this beautiful animal/wolf imagery for the Starks, and that's what I was trying to tap into: that Sansa was an injured wolf, distrustful, anguished, ready to lash out at anyone, even him. Now that time's passed, she's trying to find a way back to him, but it's not easy, after that kind of grief. That's what I was going for, and judging by reviews, some liked it some didn't. Anyway, onward with healing together.


	12. Sansa VII

**Chapter 12, Sansa VII**

Sansa put her mother's necklace on as she finished dressing for the day. She'd worn it almost every day since she'd received it. Tyrion and Brella often offered to put it on for her, but she refused; there was something sorrowful but satisfying in knowing that the last person to touch the necklace before her was her mother placing it in the box to send to Sansa. So no one else had touched the piece of jewelry, and no one else ever would as long as she had any say over the matter.

Tyrion entered the bed chambers and gave Sansa a quick smile on his way to collect a book he'd left on his bedside table the night before. Podrick was gathering Tyrion's dirty garments, and Brella was gathering up her night clothes and the bed linens for washing when she suddenly stopped and fixed Sansa with a look in the mirror. "Brella?" Sansa asked, turning around on her vanity stool.

"My lady, you haven't asked for your cloths yet this month." Sansa thought about it and realized she hadn't, though Sansa had rather lost track of time the past few week. "No, I guess not. Best to prepare for that soon, then."

"No, my lady. I mean…" Sansa looked back up to Brella, and then to Tyrion, who still hadn't turned back round from fetching his book. "It's been six weeks. You should have bled by now."

It took Sansa a moment to fully realize what Brella was suggesting. It had been two weeks since news of her family's death had reached them, and she and Tyrion hadn't made love since before then. If she was with child, it was before then.

Finally, Tyrion turned around and met her gaze, but she could tell he was at as much of a loss for words as she was.

Sansa cleared her throat. "Brella, could you inform Grandmaester Pycelle that I'll be visiting sometime this morning?"

Brella nodded. "Yes, m'lady."

"Don't say what it's about. No need to start gossip in the Red Keep if it turns out to be nothing."

"Yes, m'lady." Brella curtsied, her arms full of dirty linens, and she took her leave.

Tyrion looked at Podrick, and the squire nodded his farewell to Sansa before closing the door behind him, leaving her and Tyrion alone in their bed chambers.

Slowly, Tyrion approached her, and he put a hand over hers where it sat on her knees.

"Are you okay?"

Sansa took a shaky breath, and her left hand moved to flutter about her belly, as if she could tell the truth of it just by hovering her palm over where a babe might be growing inside her.

Truthfully, Sansa didn't know how she felt, so she said what she ought to say: "It's a wife's duty to provide her husband with heirs."

Tyrion's grip on her hand tightened, he closed his eyes and worked his jaw with a huff. It was the closest she'd seen to him losing his temper with her. "I am not my father, Sansa. I am not Cersei, I am not Joffrey. I am your husband. I'm… I'm just Tyrion, right now. We're just man and wife. I'm not a Lannister in this moment, and you're not a Stark," he said, echoing his words to her on their wedding night. "I don't give a damn what your duties are. I want to know what you're feeling, my love."

His voice wavered, and Sansa saw his eyes shine with emotion as she knew hers were. She felt her lip quiver before she could respond. "I don't know." A tear rolled down her cheek before she could stop it, and she looked down to her lap, to her hand now placed flat upon her belly. "This is such a terrible place to raise a child."

Tyrion shook his head. "No. I won't have my child born here, Sansa. I'll have us out of the city and at Casterly Rock well before our child comes into this world, I swear that to you."

Sansa nodded, but her mind was already racing to her next concern. "Will there… will there be someone there who could help me… as my mother would have?" Her voice was thick, but somehow she managed to get the words out.

Tyrion pressed his lips together, and then answered. "My Aunt Genna, my father's sister. She all but raised me. If I ask, I'm sure she'll help."

"Okay." Sansa nodded, then looked back up at him. His breaths were as short as hers; he was just as anxious. "I think I can do this, then."

A smile came to his lips then, and he put his hand over hers on her belly, and then his smile widened into the biggest she'd ever seen on him.

"You want this?" she asked, to which he nodded vigorously.

"I do. Very much, Sansa, I want this." Tears threatened to fall from his eyes, and slowly, giving her every chance to turn him away, he put his face closer to hers, wordlessly asking for the first kiss since news of her family. In this moment, she needed him. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, and she felt his lips upon hers.

She felt rather than heard the slightest of moans escape him in his want that she knew he'd been holding at bay out of respect for her grief, but while he savored her kiss, he didn't linger. He didn't ask more of her than she was willing to give just yet, and for that, Sansa was grateful.

He pulled away, and his eyes stayed closed longer than hers. When he opened them, the green in them was brighter than she'd ever seen it before.

"I will take care of you, Sansa," he vowed. "I will take care of our family." He knelt before her and kissed their entwined hands before standing again and leading her to the breakfast table, where Podrick had already laid out their meal.

Sansa tried to eat well at Tyrion's encouragement. She still wasn't all that hungry through her grief, but with Tyrion's eyes darting down to her belly so often, it was near impossible to forget that she wasn't just feeding herself, anymore. She was feeding their child, too. So Sansa made herself eat properly for the first time in weeks, and Tyrion smiled at her gratefully for it.

After they finished eating, Brella returned. Sansa rose and told Tyrion that she was going to see Grandmaester Pycelle.

"Brella, please escort my wife. And see that you remain with her."

"Yes, m'lord."

And with that, Sansa took her leave, shakily putting one foot in front of the other on the way to finding out if she'd soon be a mother.


	13. Tyrion VI

**Chapter 13, Tyrion VI**

Tyrion hoped Brella kept her word and stayed with Sansa as they went to Pycelle's laboratory; he didn't trust filthy old lecher with his beautiful young wife, not by the hairs on Pycelle's chin.

But unfortunately, Tyrion still had work to do today, else he would have accompanied Sansa himself. "Podrick, I need you to carry the ledger out to the gardens for me. I have a meeting with Olenna Tyrell this morning."

"Yes, my lord."

It was probably just the anxious prospect of soon becoming a father that this morning had thrust upon him, but Tyrion felt his senses heightened as he walked through the gardens to meet Olenna Tyrell at her usual haunting grounds; despite the autumn, the green of the leaves seemed brighter, the breeze seemed crisper, the sky seemed bluer. Seven hells, he was going to be a father. Of course, there was the possibility that she wasn't with child and it was just an irregularity in her moonblood, but six weeks was a long time to go without her moonblood. As often as he and Sansa had made love before the news of her family, he was fairly certain she was with child. He hadn't exactly been pulling out before finishing or being careful about it. Truth be told, he was a bit nervous about her being so young, but Sansa was tall and well-matured for her age, and Catelyn Stark had given birth to five healthy children; that had to count for something, right?

Tyrion tried not to worry about it too much as he approached the pavilion where the infamous Queen of Thorns was taking her morning tea with Margaery Tyrell.

"My lady, my lady," he greeted, bowing to each of them in turn.

"Lord Tyrion," Margaery greeted with a smile. "How is Lady Sansa this morning?"

"I'm afraid I must make excuses for my wife this morning. She won't be here for needlework, though perhaps in the afternoon."

"Is she feeling unwell?" she asked, concerned.

Tyrion shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that. She's actually in better spirits this morning. Sansa is… checking on something this morning, and if it turns out to be true, I'm sure you'll be among the first she'll want to tell."

Margaery looked at him shrewdly, and Tyrion suspected she and Olenna knew exactly what he was alluding to.

"Well, I can't wait to hear whatever it is," she said, taking a sip of her tea.

"Yes. Well, Lady Olenna, would you like to go over the figures this morning?"

"Oh, if we must count coppers, we must, I suppose."

Tyrion nodded, and gestured for Pod to put the ledger down on the table, and Tyrion pulled up a chair next to the prickly old woman so that they weren't constantly shoving the ledger back and forth as had happened on numerous occasions when they'd met in his solar previously.

"What festivity would you like to cut this time?" Olenna asked of him, and Tyrion shook his head.

"Not much, actually. I've just managed to source some of the decorations and laborers for less, so that's saved some money. But there's also this re-enactment—" Tyrion turned the pages of the ledger to where he'd marked the page. "It's quite an expense, and I don't know what it is. Is it your doing?"

Olenna shook her head. "No, I've no idea."

Margaery bent over the table on her grandmother's side to take up another tart, and while she did, she took a look at the addition. "Oh, that was Joffrey," she said. "That's his hand, as well. He insisted on planning his own bit of entertainment for our wedding. It was quite sweet, really."

Tyrion resisted the urge to roll his eyes at describing whatever his despicable nephew might find entertaining as "sweet," but he thanked Margaery for telling him. "That's most helpful, my lady, thank you."

The rest of his and Olenna's time was spent bickering over inanities like napkin embroidery and crepe silk draperies at certain pavilions, and Tyrion wished Sansa were with him just so someone would give half a damn about any of this sort of thing.

When he was finished with Lady Olenna, Tyrion decided to continue digging into Joffrey's entertainment; whatever his nephew had planned, he doubted it would go over well with anyone else present at the wedding if it was his sort of humor.

Tyrion found Varys in his chambers speaking to one of his little birds when he came to ask for Varys's assistance.

"Run along," Varys told the child when he was done with his whispers, and the child collected a box of sweets from a table before giving Tyrion and Pod a furtive look on his way out the door.

Pod stood outside while Tyrion spoke to the eunuch.

"I came across an irregularity in the wedding ledgers that I was hoping you could help me solve."

"How so, my lord?" he inquired.

Tyrion weighed his words. "I'm not sure what it is, but whatever it is, I need the fact that you're looking into it to remain between us."

"A favor for a friend?"

"Precisely." Tyrion paused before continuing on. "It would seem my nephew has planned some entertainment for his own wedding, and it's to be an reenactment of some kind, costing at least a thousand gold dragons."

"Must be quite the show His Grace has planned for us," Varys commented dryly.

"Yes, well, I'd still like to know what it's to be before the money comes out of the Crown's pockets."

"As you should, my lord." Varys surveyed him. "I'll get my little birds on it at once and let you know the moment I know anything."

"Thank you, Varys." Tyrion bowed his head in farewell, and Varys did the same, and he left to return to his chambers.

When he returned, he was disappointed not to find Sansa back yet, but he did find his brother.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Tyrion greeted, and he poured the both of them wine.

"Do I need to schedule when I can see my little brother now?" Jaime asked, first reaching at the wine with his right hand by instinct, but then correcting himself and taking it in the left.

Tyrion had been shocked when his brother had returned without his sword hand, but he certainly hadn't wanted to press the matter. Whenever Jaime wanted to talk with him about it, that was when Tyrion would bring it up. His brother was a warrior, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He may be a dwarf, but at least he'd had his whole life to learn how to live that way. The sum of Jaime's life could be put down to his fighting ability, and he was a changed man for it. He was still his brother, but he most certainly wasn't the same man he'd last seen in Winterfell years ago.

They sat at the table and drank for a moment before Jaime spoke. "All the news seemed to be about me the other day, how are you? Married to Sansa Stark, that must be exciting."

Jaime said it with a wry tone of voice, but Tyrion raised his eyebrows. "It's certainly never dull." Tyrion took a breath and looked at Jaime before continuing. "She's actually with the grandmaester now. We think she might be with child."

The look on Jaime's face couldn't be more surprised. "Really?"

Tyrion tilted his head. "Possibly." Tyrion drank, still somewhat in shock over the whole thing.

Jaime slowly reached forward for the flagon and sloppily refilled their glasses. When he put the flagon back on the table, Jaime raised his glass. "To my future niece or nephew."

Tyrion raised his as well, then drank the toast. As he set his glass back down, he realized his hands were shaking. He held one out, and Jaime saw. "At least you have a right hand to shake."

Tyrion laughed nervously. "You know, I don't think I've ever been so afraid of fucking up."

"Well, look on the bright side. He'll be hard pressed to turn out a bigger fatherly disappointment than you were."

Tyrion snorted some of his wine and gave Jaime a dirty look for it as he cleaned himself up.

"How does your wife feel?"

Tyrion shrugged. "She's scared. She doesn't have anyone left to turn to for advice. I'm doing my best, but… seven hells, Jaime, I've never been a pregnant young woman held prisoner by the family that laid war to mine. What the hell am I supposed to say to her?"

Jaime shrugged. "I've never been a married man, so I'm afraid I know even less than you do. "At least you've had practice."

Tyrion shot Jaime a look; he had no intention of talking about Tysha today.

"Have you told her about that yet?" Jaime asked.

"What do you think?" Tyrion snapped. He shook his head and tempered himself. "The poor girl's terrified of our family enough as it is. As if she needs to wonder if father's going to have her repeatedly raped and exiled at any moment, as well." Tysha's face flashed before his mind's eye, and he drank until she went away.

At last, Sansa returned to their chambers with Brella in tow, and Tyrion stood from the table, holding his breath, waiting.

After what seemed an eternity, she put her hand on her stomach and nodded, and the breath he'd been holding exploded out of him in a joyous burst of laughter. It all became that much more real for him; he was going to be a father.

Jaime stood behind him and put his hand on Tyrion's shoulder. Tyrion looked up to his big brother, and Jaime gave him a nod before paying his respects to Sansa and excusing himself, leaving Sansa and Tyrion alone. Brella and Pod had excused themselves elsewhere to give them privacy.

Tyrion approached her and tentatively put his hand on her belly over top of her own. "I'll make arrangements for us to leave for Casterly Rock soon after the royal wedding," he promised, looking up at her.

"I might have to change my dress for it, if I start to show by then. It's not for another three months."

Tyrion chuckled. "You're worrying about your dress right now?"

Sansa let the barest hint of a smile touch her lips, the first he'd seen since the news of her family.

He felt his smile widen in response to hers, and he put his hands on her hips and kissed her belly. He looked up at her to see that small smile still present, and tears in her eyes again.

"I know it all hurts now, Sansa. But ten years from now, we'll have six or seven children all around us, a family all our own," he promised, his voice fierce. "And the happiness they will have brought us by then will make all this pain seem so distant and small. It will still hurt, but all the joy we will bring each other, that our children will bring us will make it that much easier to bear. I promise you that. I can't promise you happiness now, but I swear to you, I will see you joyful in the years to come."

Sansa's lip quivered again, and she lowered herself to her knees to look him in the eyes. "I need this. I need family," she said, and her voice cracked into a sob. She wrapped her arms around him, and Tyrion kissed the tears that streamed down her cheeks and stroked her hair, comforting her in every way he knew how. "I love you," he murmured into her ear, the first time he'd said as much in so many words. "I love you," he said, over and over again, and he felt the words resonate in his heart. He truly did love her, and nothing would ever take her away from him, he swore that to the gods.


	14. Sansa VIII

**_Chapter 14, Sansa VIII_**

Sansa smoothed her skirts with clammy hands. Tyrion had managed to keep his family at bay to give her time to grieve for a while, but it had been two months since the death of her mother and brother, two months since she became with child, and Lord Tywin had insisted on a family dinner to acknowledge her pregnancy. Sansa wasn't really sure why, she'd barely said ten words to the man since he'd returned to King's Landing, even after she'd married his son, but Tyrion, who had made more excuses for her to avoid his family than she could count, had broken the news to her that, at last, this was a dinner she couldn't avoid.

For the occasion, Sansa wore a golden brocade gown with a high waist that sat just below her bust, disguising the slight bump she now carried just above her hips. It was one of many gowns Tyrion had ordered made for her in the past month. She didn't really need all of them, but every day, it seemed Tyrion had a present for her, something, anything to show her he cared. They weren't all large gifts; most of them were books of poems, or candies brought from across the Narrow Sea by merchants, or beautiful threads and bolts of silks that Sansa could use, though others were necklaces, some Lannister heirlooms, others commissioned by Tyrion specifically for her, or bracelets or rings or jeweled hairnets that Sansa had no idea when she would ever wear all of them. He didn't need to give her things, she knew how much he cared in every word he spoke to her, every touch and caress on her arm or shoulder as he walked past her while she sat, every smile he gave her. But still, he gave. And the gown she wore was one of the many gifts she'd received over the past month.

Sansa tried to calm her nerves as Tyrion came out of their bedchamber and greeted her where she stood in the solar. Out of habit, Sansa smoothed his collar and then gave him a small smile, her seal of approval that he was presentable.

"You know at this point, I think Pod leaves something askew just so you have something to fix," Tyrion quipped, and they both looked back at Pod who just smiled and blushed, looking down at his boots. Tyrion barked a quick laugh at that and then filled two wine glasses for them.

"Grandmaester Pycelle said I shouldn't," Sansa told him, her palm resting lightly on her belly.

"Right. Pod?" Tyrion offered, and Podrick took the glass with a nod of his head.

Sansa knew he was almost as nervous for the dinner as she was; he hated being around his whole family almost as much as she did, and he was the only one who could speak up in either of their defense if Joffrey were to round on them.

Eventually, Tyrion gave her a grim smile and offered his arm, and Sansa took it, and they were on their way to dinner. It had been a dismal hope for sure, but Sansa's nervous tummy dropped a bit more when she noted that Margaery wasn't there; Joffrey never behaved as a king should, but he was always at least a bit more civil in front of his Tyrell betrothed. But they would have no such luck at this particular dinner. Tyrion helped Sansa to her seat, making sure to seat her between Ser Jaime and himself. Sansa still had her reservations regarding her brother in law; she still remembered her father's injuries after Ser Jaime had fought him in the streets when her mother had taken Tyrion prisoner. She knew it wasn't unprovoked, but she still couldn't forgive him for attacking her father. But for Tyrion's sake, she was at least trying to be civil, if still guarded, with him, and he often made polite conversation with her when they were together.

"How's my nephew doing today?" he asked her.

Sansa rested a hand on her belly. "I'm still getting morning sickness, but I haven't felt a kick yet. Soon, though, hopefully." It felt wrong to be so happy and hopeful about anything in such company, but Sansa was indescribably impatient for the day she'd feel her baby move inside her. She still remembered when she was young when her mother had beckoned her over and put her hand on her belly pregnant with Bran, and then with Rickon, and how magical it had been to feel her baby brothers moving in her mother's belly. Sansa couldn't wait to have that for herself, to feel the life that she and Tyrion had made. "Besides, it could still be a girl."

Jaime scoffed, but Tyrion tutted at his brother as he poured himself wine. "It could be a girl. Personally, I rather hope it is."

"Why would you want a daughter first? Meaning no offense, my lady," Jaime added, completely insincere, and Sansa rolled her eyes.

"Why, to piss off father, of course," Tyrion answered with a smile before drinking, and Jaime laughed. "Speaking of whom," Tyrion added as Tywin Lannister joined them. Cersei and Joffrey brought themselves out of the corner, and the entire family finally sat at the table together.

Sansa was quite tense at first, and through the first few courses, Tyrion regularly reached over to squeeze her hand or pat her knee reassuringly. But while Tywin and Cersei managed to keep the conversation on the upcoming Royal Wedding and the new Tyrell-Lannister alliance throughout most of the courses, as dessert was served, the conversation finally turned to Sansa.

"Lady Sansa," Lord Tywin said, addressing her directly. "Grandmaester Pycelle tells me you're about two months along with child."

Tyrion's hand took hers gently in her lap as she answered. "Yes, my lord."

"And you feel healthy?" Lord Tywin's piercing green gaze was cold, calculating, unfeeling.

He wanted an heir to Winterfell; Sansa knew that was all he wanted. She held her voice steady. "I do, my lord." She hesitated, then continued. The more detail she volunteered, the less they'd ask that she'd rather keep to herself. "I have had a touch of sickness in the mornings lately, but I've been told that's normal." She didn't elaborate on her embarrassment every morning as she scrambled out of Tyrion's embrace in their bed in her haste to reach the chamber pot before she retched all over the floor of their bedchambers, her humiliation as her belly rejected what remained of the previous night's dinner as her husband held her hair back to keep it away from the stream of sick as he cooed reassurances that she'd be alright, that this was normal, that it would pass in a few weeks.

"Yes, it's quite common," Lord Tywin said without a trace of concern.

"Though I do imagine any woman would be sick at having to lay with a dwarf," Joffrey chimed in, finally rounding in on her for the first time during the dinner. "At least his whores before you got paid for it."

"That's enough," Tyrion said sharply, his hand tightening on hers. His gaze was murderous as he looked across to his nephew.

Sansa looked around the table: Jaime's jaw was set, but he looked at Cersei, then away; Cersei had a smug smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she held a glass of wine to her lips to mask her expression; Tywin, like Jaime, had his jaw set, but he was staring at Joffrey until he made eye contact; but Joffrey's gaze was fixed firmly on Tyrion and herself.

"Uncle," he said, his stare firmly on Tyrion. "You're a betting man. What would you say the odds are of that child of yours being a dwarf and tearing its mother open just like you did?"

Sansa's hand flew to her stomach, a reassuring touch that she needed between mother and child just then. Tyrion's chair screeched back as he pushed himself away from the table and stood in outrage, but Tywin spoke first. "That's enough," he said, echoing Tyrion, his tone ice and rage, only this time, Joffrey seemed to realize he really had gone too far. She'd never seen such fury in Lord Tywin's eyes as she did in that moment.

As Joffrey glared at his grandfather in challenge, Tyrion turned to Sansa, and she took his hand. Without a single farewell or acknowledgment, Tyrion led her away from the dining room and down the hall toward their chambers.

When they were safely inside, Tyrion bolted the door and then went straight to the wine. Sansa sighed and sat down in her chair, hand still absentmindedly on her belly when she heard the chatter of the glass decanter shaking against the metal cup Tyrion was pouring into.

"Tyrion?" Sansa asked, concerned; Tyrion's hands never shook so badly.

Her husband put the wine down and leaned forward on the table, both palms carefully laid flat on its top. His head was down, and she saw him shaking ever so slightly. Without a word, Sansa approached him. "I can't lose you, too," he muttered, and Sansa could tell he was saying it to himself rather than to her. Gently, she put her hand on his shoulder, and he jumped, startled by her, and he turned into her arms. He pressed his face into her bosom and wrapped his arms around her waist. Sansa wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him close to her. On occasion, holding her husband with his stature would feel like holding a child, but not now, not tonight. "I can't lose you," he said, his voice muffled by the fabric of her dress. Slowly, his face turned to the side, his cheek still pressed to her. "I won't."

Sansa wanted to say something, but what could she say? No woman could promise that she would survive childbirth. Many women died in childbed, but she remembered their conversation weeks ago, before they knew she was with child, and she stood by what she said; it was a woman's bravery to face the risks of pregnancy.

"I don't want to leave you," she said, and he looked up at her. She gave a reassuring smile, and she realized it was the truth; she truly didn't want to leave him. She'd harbored wishes of leaving King's Landing ever since her father had been taken prisoner, but now, with the prospect of having a family with Tyrion, she didn't want to leave, not so long as he was here. Wherever he was, that was her place now; he was her family, her home, all that she had left. And she certainly wasn't ready to leave the world forever, not just yet. No, whatever would happen, she would fight to stay in this world for as long as possible. For Tyrion, and for their baby.

That night, Tyrion held her tighter in his arms than usual as he slept, but Sansa didn't mind it. It wasn't as if she could find much sleep. A month had gone since she had realized she was with child, and Sansa was still in emotional turmoil when she thought of the Lannister she carried in her belly. She was proud that she became with child so quickly. Distraught for the loss of her family. Shamed that she was betraying them, finding happiness in laying with one of the family that destroyed her own. Anxious to meet her and Tyrion's first born. Fear for not having her mother there to guide her, though she would brave through that as her own mother's mother had died giving birth after her uncle Edmure, and so hadn't been there for her lady mother.

She angered at the thought that the Lannister name would inherit Winterfell through her own blood claim, resented that their firstborn son couldn't carry the Stark name. She would happily give the rest of their children Tyrion's name, but there should always be a Stark in Winterfell. When she died, there would be no more Starks left in the world, let alone Winterfell. In that, she felt lost, as every day she felt more and more a Lannister and less a Stark. Every day, she woke up in Tyrion's arms, and when he awoke, he would look at her with the brightest, happiest smile a man could muster, so much so that even she in her grief couldn't deny him the slightest of smiles in return.

Dinner aside, her life had been easier since Pycelle had confirmed her pregnancy. She was no longer viewed dismissively in court. She was a Lady of House Lannister, daughter in law to the Hand of the King, and aunt of the King by marriage, and would be afforded the respect she deserved as such. At least that was how Lord Tywin had addressed and put an end to snickers that had followed them as they attended court a fortnight past.

Eventually, Sansa pushed aside the thoughts that had plagued her for weeks and let herself be entranced by the rhythm of Tyrion's light, steady snores, and she found sleep.

* * *

The next morning after she'd had her bout of illness, cleaned up, and broke her fast with Tyrion, she stood still for a fitting for her gown for the royal wedding. Sansa had no experience in making large, adjustable skirts and bodices, so after a few evenings of fretting over it, Tyrion finally convinced her to let the dressmakers take her skirt and make the dress for her. She wasn't happy about it, but he was right; they would know better than she how to make a gown for a mother to be. As much time as she'd spent embroidering the lion and wolf skirt, the last thing she wanted was to mess it up so as to make it unusable. The skirt was to be loosely fitted today, but the bodice, to ensure a good fit, would be done and fitted the week of the wedding. It would be a rush, but it was out of Sansa's hands. After the dressmaker was done, Sansa took a seat to rest for a moment, her breakfast still not properly settled after her morning illness. When she opened her eyes, she found Tyrion with a box in his hands and a smile on his face.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she took the box. There was no denying gifts from him at this point; her husband was unstoppable at giving her trinkets. "I appreciate the thoughtfulness, but I really don't need so many… things," she said, gesturing to the box in her hands. "Besides that, we'll be leaving for Casterly Rock soon enough. It'll just be more to pack and take with us."

Tyrion waved his hand through the air, brushing aside her concerns. "When I wake, and when I give you gifts are the two times a day I can be certain of seeing you smile. That's all the reason I need to keep bringing you gifts." Sansa gave him a small smile at that. "Though I will admit," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I am starting to run out of ideas on what else to give you." At that, Sansa gave a small chuckle, one of the few moments of laughter she'd felt since her family died.

"If you ever allow me the chance to want for something, I promise I'll tell you." He winked at her, and Sansa shook her head.

With that, she opened the box to find candies. "Lemon candies from Dorne. I'm told Myrcella's grown quite fond of them, as well."

"How is she?" Sansa asked, setting the box on her lap and plucking out two candies to unwrap for her and Tyrion.

"Her letters are good. She seems to be growing very fond of Prince Trystane. Even I can't believe how well that plan of mine worked out." He accepted the candy Sansa held out for him and popped it in his mouth. "Not bad," he said, the candy clicking on his teeth, and Sansa gave a sour smile around her own; they were very good.

That afternoon, Sansa decided to visit the gods wood. It had become a regular trip for her the past few weeks, but this trip was somewhat lighter, less searching than previous. Nevertheless, she still went. She didn't really pray anymore; clearly it didn't work. But she could still use the quiet solitude to wonder at her family: where was Arya, if she was still alive; how was Jon; were Bran and Rickon really gone, as everyone said they were. They were the quiet thoughts that left a dark look on her face, the kind that Tyrion would see right through, the kind she avoided with him. She had grown very fond of Tyrion, she trusted him, and some days she even wondered if she loved him as her one true love, but there was nothing he could do to help her darker thoughts when she had them. No matter what she said, he was powerless in this, and it would only make him feel guilty. For mother, for Robb, he could help her grieve. For the unknown, he had no answers, and she knew that was what he hated most of all.

As Sansa turned to leave, she heard the rustling of the wind in the leaves; she would change into a heavier dress before dinner to cut the chill of the evening.

She was halfway through the labyrinth of the woods when she realized her footsteps had an irregular echo. But this was the godswood; there shouldn't have been an echo at all. She stopped, and it was a moment before the echo stopped.

 _Someone is following me,_ she realized, and her hand flew to her belly. Sansa started walking again slowly, and the footsteps did, too. As she turned a corner, Sansa walked faster to get away, not paying attention to where she was going, panic coursing through her heart, and suddenly she found herself at a dead end. With bated breath, she jumped as a hand took her arm. She spun around, and found a short man with a familiar face, his finger pressed on his lips, begging her silence.

"It's only me, it's only me, my lady."

Sansa wracked her memories of who he was. "I beg your pardon," she said, stalling as she tried to recall him.

"Don't you know me?" he asked, and she smelled the wine on his breath.

 _Wine. Joffrey's name day._ "Ser Dontos, of course. I should have remembered straight away. So sorry."

"'S'alright. I used to be a knight, someone to remember. Now I'm just a fool, and a drunken one at that."

"How can I help you, Ser?" she asked, her hand still pressed to her belly.

Dontos noticed that. "You never asked for your marriage to the Imp."

Sansa pursed her lips at the derogatory name. "I never asked to be married to Lord Tyrion, no." _Where is he going with this?_

"You have friends outside of this city, my lady. I can take you to them. I can help take you home."

 _Home_. The word struck at her heart like a knife. She pictured the white of winter snows, the red leaves of the Weirwood tree, the stone and furs and fires and moors. Her mother's skirts swaying down torchlit halls, father cleaning his sword under the Heart Tree, his face impassive as it reflected into the pool below.

But her hand still clutched at her belly, at the life growing inside her, and home meant something else to her, too. Tyrion's curly locks on a pillow soaked in sunlight, laughter in the library as they read jokes in High Valyrian written by someone long dead, her wolf and lion embroidered bedspread that she and Tyrion tucked under every evening, the feel of her husband's fingers running through her hair as he undid her braids and brushed her hair when she asked him to, the feel of his hands, his mouth, his warm body besides hers, on hers, inside hers, reaching to know everything that she was...

Sansa shook her head. "My husband is my home now."

"My lady," Dontos started, reaching out for her arm again, but Sansa pulled out of his reach.

"Good day, Ser." Sansa moved around him and found her way back to her and Tyrion's chambers.

She found him at his desk, poring over some boring ledger. When he looked up at her, he smiled, and she went to his side and knelt down. He look at her quizzically, and then in surprise as she reached forward and took his face in both her hands, pulling his lips to hers.

 _Home_.

When she released him, he looked as confused as she'd ever seen him, but without a word, she stood and held out her hand. A moment of hesitation, but Tyrion took it, as he always would.

Silently, she led him to their bed. When they stood by its side, Sansa began to undress, not taking her eyes off of Tyrion, and he did the same, watching her. When they were both free from their clothes, she held out her hand, and Tyrion took it, letting her lead him to her body for the first time since the news of her family's death. Slowly, gently, he wrapped his arms around her belly and pressed his lips to the bump that had grown there. _Home_.

He looked up at her, and Sansa realized she had tears in her eyes. "You're my home now. You're everything I have."

Tyrion held her more closely, and she leaned down to reach her lips to his. She pulled her lips away, but rested her forehead on his. "I love you," she whispered. She wasn't sure yet if it was the storybook love she always thought she'd feel, but she did love him. He was her family, her home, her hope, her protector. She loved him. That much she knew.

"As I love you, Sansa," he said, his breath shuddered, and she felt his chest shaking against her core.

Slowly, she backed onto the bed, and Tyrion climbed in after her. It felt strange and familiar all at once, making love again after so long. Tyrion's touch was just as she remembered it, but she wasn't the same person as she was last time he caressed her. She was made differently now, with their baby between them, and Tyrion was careful to position her with her hips up so that he could enter her without laying on her. He was always gentle on top of her, but Sansa found her hand fluttering to her belly whenever he put any weight on her, so they found it best to avoid altogether.

After a bit of fumbling and readjusting, they finally found their rhythm again, and Sansa felt Tyrion's fingers on her womanhood, coaxing her to pleasure, felt his manhood inside of her, reaching for that place that would set her to writhing. Her hands reached out to him, to his hands, his chest, his legs, anything of him that she could reach as she arched her back to lift her hips to meet his until finally she screamed out his name and shuddered in ecstasy.

Tyrion finished right after, and pulled out to lay by her side. Her head lolled over to his shoulder, and she found a lazy smile had made its way to her lips. "I love you," she said, one more time, feeling it in her heart, her body, the core of her being. "I love you."

 ** _A/N:_** So sorry for the long delay; I've been dealing with some personal stuff and haven't had the time or mood to write for a while, but I'm feeling better now and hope to get back on it (with both _If Only_ *and* _Winter's Thaw!)._ As always, reviews make me happy, so keep them coming!


	15. Tyrion VII

**Chapter 15: Tyrion VII**

It was two weeks to the day before the royal wedding was to take place, and instead of spending the day with Sansa as he would have preferred, he found himself waiting on the Rosby Road outside of the Iron Gate with Podrick and Bronn waiting on the rather tardy Dornish wedding guests, well aware that he had that particular honor only because his father was unwilling to risk any other Lannister life to be the first to speak to a Martell since the murder of Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys. Very reassuring, that.

"How many Dornishman does it take to fuck a goat?" Bronn asked, breaking the long, unnaturally tense silence between the three of them, but Tyrion couldn't appreciate his sellsword's humor at a time like this.

"Please don't." Tyrion tried his best to stand his ground, but gods was he getting hot under the collar, standing under the sun for so long. He didn't know how Jaime could stand all those hours out training in this. Give him his books and his library any day. Even Pod, resolute as always, was looking anxious and leaning on the Lannister sigil banner he carried to mark their welcoming party.

Bronn rambled on about how they should have agreed to meet in a pub, to wait indoors, with a nice ale to pass the time, but Tyrion kept his eyes down the road, on the lookout for the orange and red Martell banners.

"This is the Prince of Dorne we're waiting for, not one of your sellsword friends," Tyrion told him, although he had to admit, a nice ale did sound good at the moment.

A bit more banter helped them to pass the time until finally, he spotted banners coming down the road. Podrick, astute squire that he always was, starting naming them off, one by one: Dolt of Lemonwood, Blackmont, Manswoody. But no Martell banners. _Well, this should go over well_.

"Well met, my lords," Tyrion greeted the first of the dornishmen as they brought their horses to a halt beside him. _Gods, is it just me, or are Dornish horses even taller than usual?_ Tyrion was used to feeling small to men on horseback, but he was perhaps more aware of his height disadvantage when he saw the hate for Lannisters in every man's eyes as they stared down at him. Nevertheless, he carried on. "His Grace King Joffrey welcomes you in his name. My lord father, the King's Hand, sends his greetings as well. I am Tyrion Lannister, of Casterly Rock, Master of Coin." Silence hung in the air as no one else spoke to introduce themselves. _Best get this out of the way, then._ "Forgive me, I don't see Prince Doran in your company."

Finally, he got a response from a man at the forefront. "The prince's health forces him to remain at Sunspear. He sends his brother, Prince Oberyn, to attend the royal wedding instead."

 _The Red Viper. Fuck._ "Yes. The King would be delighted to enjoy the company of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn at his wedding feast."

The man called his bullshit. "Will he?" he said with a smile, and Tyrion did all he could not to react.

"And where is Prince Oberyn?"

"Arrived before dawn. Not a man for welcome parties, our prince." Tyrion heard Bronn snigger behind him at that. _Shit. We need to find him before he starts a war_. "Very well. My lords, these fine men from the city watch will escort you to your quarters." Tyrion had a full speech of instruction, but it was punctuated as he moved aside to avoid being trampled by the dornishmen who clearly didn't give a shit about listening to him. "You must be weary, after such a long journey," he finished, trailing off mostly to himself.

 _Fuck_. He turned to Bronn and Pod as the dornishmen did as they would. Bronn spoke first. "Some accomplished diplomacy, that was. Now where?"

"We must find Prince Oberyn, before he kills somebody. Or several somebodies."

"How do you propose we find a single dornishman in a city this big?"

"You're famous for fucking half of Westeros, you've just arrived at the Capital after two weeks of bad roads. Where would you go?"

"I'd probably go to sleep," Bronn said, "But I'm getting old."

 _I'd like to go to sleep,_ Tyrion thought. _Preferably in Sansa's arms._

A short while later found them at a brothel, arriving to find Prince Oberyn just in time to see his blade pulled out of the wrist of an off-duty Lannister soldier, sending a large amount of blood onto the table on which he had been pinned. Once unpinned, the two soldiers left, leaving Tyrion and Bronn alone with Prince Oberyn and his female companion, whom he began kissing passionately. Having never spent much time around dornishmen, Tyrion wondered if this was normal, and he looked at Bronn, who just looked back at him with a knowing smile. Apparently it was.

Awkwardly, he tried to regain Oberyn's attention. "I'm here to welcome you to the capital." The kissing continued, but finally his companion was the one to pay attention to him.

"Ellaria Sand, my paramour," Oberyn introduced, still looking at her. Finally, he extended a hand toward Tyrion and made the introduction for him. "The King's own uncle Imp, Tyrion, son of Tywin Lannister."

Given the bad blood between the Martells and the Lannisters, Tyrion decided to let the Imp comment go. "If there's anything I can do to make your stay in King's—" he started, but Oberyn cut him off.

"And who are you?" he asked, looking at Bronn. "His hired killer?"

"It started that way, aye. Now I'm a knight," Bronn answered.

"How did that come to pass?"

Bronn shrugged. "Killed the right people I suppose."

Oberyn slowly started to laugh, and Tyrion joined in, glad of any levity.

"We'll need more girls," he told the host standing behind them, and Tyrion shook his head. Once upon a time, he would have greatly enjoyed something like that, but now… no woman held the appeal Sansa did for him, and he would never shame her like that.

"You don't partake?" Oberyn asked him, surprise on his face.

"Oh, I partook," Tyrion said quite readily. "Now I'm married. Prince Oberyn, if I may have a word in private?"

Reluctantly it seemed, Oberyn released his paramour, and they walked outside to talk properly without distraction.

Tyrion tried to keep the conversation light with welcomes, but Oberyn, it seemed, was not a man to be deterred or placated by niceties, preferring to speak about his sister Elia and how she was butchered by Gregor Clegane, perhaps on the orders of Tyrion's own father. This was most certainly not a conversation he wanted to have with a man half again his height and a renowned fighter with no Bronn to stand between them at that moment. "Tell your father I'm here," he said confidently. "And tell him the Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."

He walked away back into the brothel, and Tyrion closed his eyes. Just once, he'd like to have a pleasant morning without his father ruining it for him in one way or another. As Oberyn re-entered the brothel, Bronn and Podrick found their way out to him, and they returned to the Red Keep.

Just as he was mounting the stairs to his chambers, hoping to find Sansa, he heard his name called out. "Oh what now?" he muttered under his breath, turning round to find Varys.

"If I might have a word, my lord?"

Tyrion allowed Varys to lead the way to a quiet spot where they wouldn't be overheard.

"What is it?" Tyrion finally asked when they'd stopped.

"Troubled morning?" Varys asked, and Tyrion could swear the bastard already knew everything that had transpired. He shot him a look, and Varys carried on. "I discovered the entertainment that our dear King is planning, and where the diversion is currently being housed, if that's still of any interest to you?"

He held out a scroll with a broken wax seal bearing a mockingbird sigil and read all he needed to know: dwarves. Of course this would be Joffrey's idea of a mockery, parading more disfigured little monsters in front of the entire court and all of its guests. Plenty of opportunity to suggest that Tyrion should join in the fun, too, he had no doubt. And of course Littlefinger would be the one to arrange such a thing, the procurer of rarities. Tyrion had heard well how Baelish had requested to marry Sansa for himself, but he was deemed too lowborn for her. Perhaps this was his way of revenge? Well, a Lannister always paid his debts, and Tyrion would be sure to pay back this one in full in time, with interest.

Tyrion looked up at Varys. "Thank you." He and Varys parted ways then, and Tyrion knew he had to deal with this sooner rather than later.

He returned to his chambers and found Sansa sewing in her chair, her feet up on their ottoman. Tyrion just watched her for a moment, and finally a smile crept onto her face reluctantly. She refused to look up from her embroidery, but she acknowledged his presence with a smile. "Anything I can help you with?"

Tyrion sighed, watching as she embroidered a lion onto the corner of the baby blanket she'd been working on for the past few days. He approached her and knelt beside her. She paused in her stitches, and he laid his head in her lap. He heard and felt her chuckle, and then felt her fingers running through his hair. "You're already doing everything you can to make me feel pride in my family again, so no, Sansa, there's nothing more I can ask of you." He lifted his head, and he was pleased to see the smile was still on her lips, though there was a sad bitterness in her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, realizing how that must have sounded to her, but she shook her head.

"No, it's alright." She sighed and placed a hand on her belly. "Our children will be Lannisters. I want them to be proud of us, of their family, of their lineage. And, one day, even I might feel pride to be a lady of House Lannister." Her mouth turned into the smallest of frowns at that, as if she doubted that would ever happen, but at least she didn't seem closed to the possibility. "Are you staying for lunch?"

Tyrion withdrew from her and stood. "Unfortunately there's a matter that needs my attention rather urgently." He hesitated, considering telling her about Joffrey's diversion, but he decided not to; he didn't want to stress over the fact that his nephew still clearly enjoyed the prospect of humiliating and degrading them. "I should be back in time for dinner, though." With that, he kissed her on the forehead, lingering as he breathed in the scent of her hair—lemons, as always when she washed her hair with lemongrass oils in the mix—and then pulled himself away from her to go to his desk. Quickly, he found the bag of gold and a few diamonds he was looking for, and he set off again, passing Sansa with a quick goodbye, drawing Pod along in his wake. He found Bronn waiting in the hallway as he'd asked, and together they set off to return to Littlefinger's brothel.

He and Pod tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible halfway down a nearby alleyway, and finally, Bronn returned to them after his reconnaissance. "Just as you thought, they're all being boarded in rooms out back of the brothel. Easy way in and out without the pompous blond fellow seeing what we're up to so long as we're quick about it."

Tyrion nodded. "Lead the way."

Without a word, they stuck close to the walls and crept back the alley beside the brothel, and Bronn let them into the gate at the back that led to the wash areas. A few washer women looked oddly at them for a moment before returning to their work; they probably didn't get paid enough to care very much about a few men sneaking into a brothel without going through the proper channels. Finally, Bronn led them to a cottage within the courtyard, and they let themselves in. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the cottage, Tyrion saw eye to eye with a number of men his own height for once. _Gods, if I'd been lowborn…_ he thought to himself, eyeing the liquor bottles strewn across the floor, the ridiculous costumes laid on every conceivable surface, the ragged state of anything that didn't look like it belonged on stage.

"Hello," Tyrion stated awkwardly, knowing full well that he'd just barged in on five men's living quarters. "I'm—"

"Tyrion Lannister. Yes, we might have guessed," one of them said from the shadows, his voice slurred from drink.

One of the men standing grabbed an empty bottle from a table and threw it at the voice, and Tyrion heard a thunk and a grunt as the bottle clearly collided with the man's skull.

"My name's Marsh. How can we help you, m'lord?"

Tyrion sighed, and decided honesty was the best policy. "Marsh, I've been recently made aware of the contract made with you for entertainment for the royal wedding." Tyrion looked to his right vacantly before his eyes fixed on a wolf's head, no doubt meant to make a mockery of his late brother in law. "Unfortunately, my family no longer feels it would be in good taste to display the show as planned."

"You want us to change the show?" Marsh ran his hand through his hair. "We've already had the costumes and everything made, m'lord. It'd be a rush to have anything else made properly in time."

"That's quite alright." Tyrion drew the bag of gold from his belt and placing it on the table in front of him in a streak of sunlight. "There will be no show. The gold you've been paid is yours to keep, and this bag is yours as well if you leave the city by tomorrow morning." Tyrion drew five diamonds out of the other bag he had on him. "I realize that performing for the royal wedding would have been a great honor, so I hope this," he said, laying the diamonds down on the table, making sure they sparkled in the light, "will help offset the inconvenience."

Marsh's eyebrows raised up, and he looked round to the others. "Might be hard to find a ship to leave for Pentos on such short notice."

"Perhaps, but Ser Bronn here will escort you to the docks himself to help you in that search." Tyrion looked at Marsh to make perfectly clear that he wanted them out of the city as quickly and quietly as possible.

Marsh nodded. "We can pack and be gone within the hour, m'lord."

"Excellent. I'll leave you to it, then. Bronn, you'll stay and help these gentlemen on their way?"

Bronn nodded, and Tyrion left as quickly as he could, passing the washer women, pausing only once he and Pod had made it to the alley. He closed his eyes, anger coursing through him from head to toe. His nails were digging into his palms as his fists clenched, shaking in his fury. After a moment, Pod's voice got through to him. "My lord?"

Taking a deep breath, Tyrion thought of Sansa, of her smile, her touch, her scent, and, slowly, the anger fell from him. She anchored him; he could never stay mad while thinking of her. It was something he'd begun the past few weeks during particularly irritating Small Council meetings, but now he found he used it almost daily. He opened his eyes, and he saw Pod's concern. "I'm fine, Pod. Let's go home."

When he and Pod returned to his chambers, he found Sansa, but she wasn't alone. She stood in front of his desk, his brother to the side a few steps away with an exasperated expression on his face, and knelt before his wife was Lady Brienne, her sword extended toward Sansa.

"Lady Sansa," the lady warrior said solemnly. "I offer you my services. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Tyrion tried to keep the surprise from his face as he looked at his brother questioningly, but Jaime just shrugged, clearly not about to interrupt.

"And I vow," his wife said, some uncertainty in her voice, "that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise."

Lady Brienne stood before sheathing her sword, and she bowed her head to kiss Sansa's hand. At that, Sansa realized Tyrion had returned and gave him a sad smile. "Lady Brienne was sworn to my mother before her death," she explained. "She swore to take Arya and me home."

Tyrion tried to hide the panic from his face, but he knew he had to be failing; she wouldn't just leave him, would she?

Sansa must not have noticed as she looked down at her belly, one hand resting gently on the bump where their child grew. "I have a new home now, but there's still a chance my sister is out there, alone. I have charged Lady Brienne with the duty of finding my sister and taking her to safety."

Relieved that his wife wasn't abandoning him for this lady knight, he approached the group, taking Sansa's hand. He tried not to be the pessimist, but he couldn't help but question the folly in trying to find one little girl who had been lost for almost three years. "Where would be safe for her?" he asked her. "Winterfell is held by the Boltons. Rivverrun is under siege by the Freys."

"She could go the Vale. They've not declared for a side in any of this, and my aunt would take care of her."

Tyrion shook his head. "Not while Littlefinger is there. Lysa Arryn may be among your last blood family, but Littlefinger betrayed your family once. He'll not hesitate to do so again."

Sansa cocked her head. "What do you mean? How did he betray my family?"

Tyrion froze, and he realized that Sansa truly didn't know; he'd thought she must have known from somewhere, but nobody had told her anything at all.

"Sansa… it was Baelish who promised to back your father as Lord Regent when Robert died, and it was Baelish who ordered the gold cloaks to cut down his men in the throne room." Sansa looked sick, but he finished all the same. "Baelish is the reason he was arrested and tried as a traitor."

Sansa looked around the room at everything and nothing, and Tyrion put a hand on the small of her back and led her to her chair to sit down. Pod, ever helpful, offered her a glass of water, but Sansa waved it away. Tyrion worried about the baby, but Sansa didn't seem overly distraught, just taken by surprise.

"I never knew. All this time… he offered to help me," she muttered, and Tyrion made a note to ask her about that later. Sansa looked at him. "Why didn't you ever tell me this before?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Littlefinger left the capital before we were wed, and he never came up. That aside, I thought you knew."

There was no accusation in Sansa's eyes, just sadness at learning yet another betrayal almost three years after its occurrence. "Perhaps Jon, then?" she said after a while, her attention returning to Lady Brienne. "You could find a way to take her to our half-brother Jon at the Wall. The North isn't safe with the Boltons in power, but if you can sail her to Eastwatch by the Sea and make your way to Castle Black from there, Jon will keep her safe."

Lady Brienne nodded, albeit hesitantly. "The Wall is a dangerous place, my lady. But if that is your wish, when I find your sister, I will take her there."

"It may be dangerous, but it's the only place she'll be safe," Sansa said with a frown, tears hiding in the corners of her eyes, and Tyrion's heart felt soured; it was entirely his family's fault that the only safe place left for a Stark was at the edge of the world, and he was powerless to change anything about that.

Sansa nodded, then stood again. She seemed steady, so Tyrion gave her some room. She went to their chambers for a moment, and Tyrion thought perhaps she meant to lay down after all that had been said, but then she returned, her hands full. Hesitantly, Tyrion watched as she handed to Lady Brienne the gloves that her brother had given her, and his note. "Give these to my sister, when you find her. She'll know Robb's hand, and with the gloves, she'll know it's not just a letter you found laying around." A frown, and then she walked around to sit at Tyrion's desk, and he watched as his wife wrote a note herself, sanded it, dried it, and then sealed it before standing and giving that to Lady Brienne as well. "That should all suffice to prove your loyalty, and your intentions."

Sansa frowned then, before turning to Tyrion. "I don't ask for much, but could you give Lady Brienne gold to help provide for her travels?"

Tyrion didn't have much hope for this expedition; he was fairly certain Arya Stark was long dead and buried in a ditch somewhere. But if his wife still had hope, and someone willing to look for Arya for her, he wasn't going to speak against it. He went to his desk and found some coin, put it in a bag, and then handed it to Lady Brienne. Without another word, Lady Brienne bowed to his wife, and his brother escorted her out of the room.

Sansa sat at the desk, and Tyrion stood next to her, his arms around her as she shook. Tyrion couldn't tell if she was crying or just overwrought, but either way, he would comfort her. One way or another, he would always comfort her.

* * *

Sorry for the wait; work/life/etc has been nuts for me lately, but I definitely wanted to get this out before the end of November. For those who also read my post-ADWD fic "Winter's Thaw", I'm going to try to get another chapter out for that as well. I had no idea I hadn't updated that since March (argh!). Time passes way too quickly sometimes. Anyway, reviews are always appreciated. Hope you enjoy it!


	16. Sansa IX

_Happy Holidays, everyone! I'll try to get another chapter up tomorrow while I've got some time off. Exciting stuff coming up, and I know you're all interested to see how this AU plays out..._

 **Chapter 16: Sansa IX**

As Brella finished lacing her dress in the back, Sansa turned to the mirror to look at herself. It certainly wasn't how she imagined her gown would look, but as she saw the small bump of her belly nestled amongst the silk of her skirts, she swelled with pride. She no longer looked the part of the beautiful maiden she once was, but she was still beautiful. Even more so now than before, if Tyrion was to be believed.

She still felt doubt over the end of the Stark name, grief for her family, and she wished her mother could be here for her, more than anything, but no amount of tears or prayer or sadness would bring them back, and so she chose to focus on the hope that now grew inside her. So long as she had Tyrion, she had love; she had companionship. And soon, she would have family again. He was what she needed. _They_ were what she needed, and she placed a hand softly on her belly.

And besides, one day, perhaps even soon, she would have Arya back in her life, if Lady Brienne succeeded in her quest. As she looked at her gown in the mirror, the embroideries of her two houses, Sansa was determined to be happy, at least for today. Around her neck, she wore the first necklace Tyrion gave her, touching it lightly as she remembered how he'd come to the gardens that morning after their wedding night, how Lady Margaery and her cousins had giggled at how awkward they had been, but how sweet. Sansa shook her head as she sat for Brella to finish her braids. It seemed a lifetime ago that they had married, and in some ways, perhaps it was. With a pang of worry, she felt for Margaery, that Joffrey would never be so thoughtful and kind as Tyrion was. But she pushed it aside; Margaery knew what she was getting into, she must have a plan to manage him. She was clever, and this was what she wanted. Sansa would be happy today, and she would support her friend, no matter what.

As her handmaiden finished her braids, Tyrion entered their chambers, dressed and already with a cup of wine in his hand. He smiled proudly at her in the mirror as he saw the necklace. Brella withdrew, and Tyrion came up behind her to place a kiss on her cheek. She leaned back against his chest, and he put his hands on her waist, reaching around to hold the sides of her growing belly. Sansa watched as his eyes dropped from hers in the mirror to her neckline, to her belly, and the smile that lingered on his lips warmed her heart, but also struck a sadness into her; it was the same look she remembered on her father's face when he held her mother when she was with Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Pride, hope, love.

When she looked up at the mirror again, he was looking in her eyes, concern there now. "Something wrong?" he asked her.

Sansa smiled and shook her head. "You're going to be a wonderful father, I think."

His smile widened, and he moved to kiss her fully on the lips, and Sansa let herself fall into the moment. The past wasn't going anywhere; she wanted to enjoy today.

When he pulled away, he held out his hand. "Shall we join my wonderful family for breakfast?"

Sansa suppressed a smile as she took his hand and stood. "Are you going to be this cynical all day?" she asked, and she waited for an answer as he drained the cup of wine he'd taken up again before setting it on the table to take her arm.

"At my nephew's expense? What better day could I possibly ask for than this one?" He gave her a mischievous smile, and she smirked as he led her to the gardens for the breakfast. Her belly was still turning from this morning's sickness, but thankfully her mornings had been steadily getting easier the past few weeks. Or she'd been getting used to it, she wasn't sure which. In any case, she wasn't dreading the idea of food and was quite looking forward to the cakes and pastries. Tyrion assured her there would be lemon cakes; if not, he jokingly mentioned he'd have to go after the bakers for false billing.

Podrick trailed behind them, carrying their wedding gift. Sansa had wanted no part in giving Joffrey anything, so she had left that task to Tyrion. Despite the enmity between them, when Tyrion showed her what he'd acquired for Joffrey, she'd thought it quite a wonderful, thoughtful gift: _The Lives of Four Kings_ by Grand Maester Kaeth. Sansa had read through some of it in her leisure time, and she had marveled at the illuminations. She knew it would be thoroughly unappreciated by Joffrey, that any wisdom or perspective it might have to offer would be completely lost on such a sadistic oaf, but she had nothing but compliments for Tyrion on his choice of gift. It wasn't his fault his nephew was an utter idiot.

Sansa nodded and paid her courtesies as they entered the venue. Together, she and Tyrion greeted Lord Tywin, Lord Mace Tyrell, then Queen Cersei—soon to be Lady Cersei, Sansa thought with a petty relish—Ser Kevan, Ser Jaime, more Lannisters, more Tyrells.

Just as they were about to sit, a man with olive skin and dark hair with a woman on his arm of the same complexion with a scandalously low cut dress greeted Tyrion. Sansa tried to keep her eyes from the woman's chest and found a bit of amusement that she was sure she was having the same problem as her husband in this moment; she couldn't even blame him for it, really.

"Sansa," Tyrion said, his gaze determinedly on Sansa's face as he spoke to her. "May I introduce you to Prince Oberyn Martell, and his paramour, Lady Ellaria Sand."

"I'm no lady, my lord," she said with a smoky voice, a smile on her lips.

Tyrion nodded his head. "Forgive me, Ellaria. A habit, I suppose. Prince Oberyn, Ellaria, this is my wife, Lady Sansa of House Stark."

"And your son or daughter, as well, I see," Prince Oberyn pointed out with a smile, and Sansa nodded, placing a hand on her belly. "How far along are you, if I may ask?"

"Three moons now," Sansa answered, more than a little pride in her voice.

"Congratulations, Lord Tyrion. You didn't tell me your wife was expecting."

"Yes, well, our conversation upon meeting went elsewhere," Tyrion said in a tone Sansa knew that meant he was euphemistically implying an unpleasantry; he'd glossed over conversations with his father and sister quite often to Sansa in that manner.

"It did. But today is a day for celebration and joy, I suppose. My gladdest wishes for you both, particularly for you, Lady Sansa. I know well myself how painful it is to lose family to violence. Even more specifically to Lannister violence. We share that, really."

Sansa looked down to Tyrion and saw his jaw grinding.

Oberyn continued. "But I've found much solace and joy in my own children. I wish nothing less for you."

"Thank you, Prince Oberyn, for your kind blessing." Sansa didn't know what else to say, but at that, Podrick came to hover at Tyrion's side, and they all took that as a sign that it was time to be seated. Sansa mustered as gracious a goodbye as she could, and then let Tyrion steer her to their place. It was as far from Joffrey's place as they could be while still seated amongst the royal party. An insult, to be sure, for a man who recently served as Hand of the King, and Sansa was ridiculously thankful for it. Seeing a rather calm expression on Tyrion's face, she surmised his thoughts were in line with hers.

They rose again as Joffrey approached the table, and then sat when he was settled. For once, Sansa was so far away from him that he didn't even notice her to sneer or glare. _This might actually be a lovely day for once_ , she thought.

The breakfast began quite pleasantly. As promised, there were lemon cakes aplenty, and Podrick was sure to grab a plate to set in front of them early on at Tyrion's request. Eggs and ham fixed with Dornish spices nearly burned her tongue, and then there were dishes of exotic fish and birds that were given as gifts from some of the foreign guests from the Summer Isles and beyond. Sansa hoped she and Tyrion might meet some of these foreign dignitaries, as she'd grown so fond of her exotic silks and would love to learn more about distant lands and cultures, but she also felt shy about it; it didn't seem becoming of a young lady to have such curiosities about foreigners.

Eventually, it was time to give gifts, and thankfully others started off so that Sansa and Tyrion could keep eating without interruption. An elaborate bow and quiver, jewels and knives, skins and silks. _Things for a lady, and things for a killer, and nothing in between_ , Sansa noted. The smiles around the wedding party betrayed no knowledge of Joffrey's true nature, but clearly everyone knew what he was, and gifts to that effect seemed to be the preferred method of gaining favor with the king. Sansa felt a bit sick at the knowledge that everyone knew he was horrible and no one cared; she wondered if this was what court was like with the Mad King before the Rebellion. Everyone knowing, and no one saying a word.

Finally, it was their turn. As they'd agreed, Tyrion would give the gift alone. He chose it, but more importantly, he wanted Sansa to stay out of Joffrey's line of sight. Insults to himself, Tyrion could let slide, but his temper over insults to Sansa they'd decided wouldn't do to be seen in public. They certainly didn't want a public reenactment of the family dinner a few weeks past.

Tyrion rounded the end of the table as Pod set the book in front of Joffrey with a bow, and Tyrion came to stand in front of him to announce it.

"A book?" Joffrey said, and Sansa had to keep from rolling her eyes. _Yes, you idiot, it's a book._

Tyrion had more patience than she did. " _The Lives of Four Kings_ , Grand Maester Kaeth's history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read."

Sansa looked down the table, nervous about Joffrey's reaction. Tyrion had put thought into the gift, and quite a bit of effort she knew to track down one of the few remaining copies. Not to mention a good deal of gold that was spent on acquiring it, though that didn't mean as much to a Lannister as it did to Sansa. Joffrey shifted in his seat as Tyrion stood there awkwardly, waiting for some kind of reaction. He looked at her, and at his father, and Sansa held her breath, waiting to see whether Joffrey would act as a king ought to, or if he would act as a petulant adversary as he usually did.

Sansa watched as Joffrey met a hard, brief glance from Lord Tywin, and he took a breath and turned back to Tyrion, a deceptively pleasant smile on his face.

"Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom. Thank you, uncle." He gave a solemn nod, and Sansa was surprised. She knew it wasn't genuine in the slightest, but he'd actually behaved well for once. With a blossom of hope, she thought perhaps Margaery wasn't doomed after all.

But Tyrion's eyes narrowed as he bowed to Joffrey and made his exit, and he met her look, and her suspicions returned. She wondered if he'd seen something she hadn't, and held her reservations.

As Tyrion returned to her, a kingsguard presented a sword to Joffrey, and Lord Tywin announced, "One of only two Valyrian Steel swords in the Capital, Your Grace. Freshly forged in your honor."

Sansa felt sick as Joffrey walked round the table behind them to get at the sword. There was only one place that steel could have come from, and it belonged to her father. Her family. It belonged to the North, not to _him_. Anger welled up in her, and Tyrion placed a hand on hers, but it didn't help in the slightest. Tears came to the corner of her eyes in anger, and she tried to look away as he picked up the sword and started swinging it in the air like an untrained idiot.

"Careful, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle warned. "Nothing cuts like Valyrian Steel."

"So they say," Joffrey said, weighing the blade in his hand, pacing away from the table.

With a turn, he took steps back to the table, raised the sword over his head, and then brought it down onto _The Lives of Four Kings_ , splitting the book in two, in four, into pieces and shards of paper and binding. Tyrion started to rise from his seat, but Sansa turned her hand over to grab his wrist. Sansa was furious over her father's sword, over the destruction of such a rare book, but Tyrion's hand was shaking, his jaw set. As livid as she was, she could tell he was moreso. Softly, she rubbed small circles onto his wrist with her thumb, and at last he looked away from the literary carnage to see her eyes, and she watched as he gave a long sigh, letting it go. While Joffrey wasn't looking, she leaned forward and placed a small, chaste kiss on Tyrion's lips. Most of the court's attention was on Joffrey's violent spectacle, and Tyrion needed her comfort now more than the court needed her modesty. She rested her forehead on his for a moment, then pulled away. He nodded; he was calmed. They looked back toward the scene, and Joffrey was determinedly glaring at both of them. Sansa's other hand went to her belly in a flash of fear that came over her just then, but she pushed it down.

"Such a great sword should have a name," he called out to the crowd, turning to them. "What shall I call her?"

"Stormbringer!" someone cried out.

"Wolf's Bane!"

"Widow's Wail!"

Joffrey pointed out at the last name, and shook the sword. "Widow's Wail, I like that." He chuckled, turning back to the table and sheath. "Every time I use it will be like cutting off Ned Stark's head all over again." He put the sword back in its sheath and glared at Sansa as he rounded the end of the table to return to his seat, and Tyrion held her hand in both of his. Calming her. Once Joffrey was seated, Sansa turned away and brushed the angry tears from her eyes.

"Within the week," Tyrion said when she turned back to him, and her gaze met his. "Within the week, we'll be away from King's Landing, and within the turn of a moon, we'll be to Casterly Rock, and Joffrey can go fuck himself."

Sansa gave a weak chuckle, and Tyrion smiled. He looked down and put a hand on her belly. "Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" he asked.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "I think we'll love them just the same, no matter what." Her tone held more of a threat than she'd intended, but Tyrion just chuckled.

"That we will." He kept his focus on her, and she on him.

Nothing else mattered, or would matter for much longer. Soon, they would be gone from this horrid place to a castle by the sea. _Just a few more days_ , Sansa thought to herself. _That's all. Just a few more days._


	17. Tyrion VIII

_Sorry, not the chapter everyone was hoping for, but still a sweet one. If you're into some smut to break up your wholesome Christmas if you celebrate that, you're in luck. If not, sorry, but this chapter's been planned for a while. It just happened to be written and posted on Christmas, Lol. Anyway, enjoy, and I'll see if I can't get another chapter up today as well while I'm on a roll. *crosses fingers*_

 **Chapter 17: Tyrion VIII**

Tyrion and Sansa stood in the Sept of Baelor behind his father, sister, and nephew, waiting for this damned wedding to be over so he and Sansa could go to the feast, eat, and get away from his family at the earliest opportune moment. That much they'd decided on during the ride to the Sept in their litter.

"A few more people here than at our wedding," Sansa commented dryly, and Tyrion shook his head.

"I daresay our Queen-to-be had a bit more say in the guest list than you did," he quipped with a grim smile up at Sansa, and her eyebrows quirked in response. He took her hand, trying to apologize without words for something that had been completely out of his control. "I know it wasn't the wedding you'd always wanted."

"No," she agreed, and Tyrion hung his head. "But this is the marriage I needed, and that counts for more." He looked up at her, and she had a smile playing at her lips, and her fingers gripped his hand before interlacing with his own. He brought her hand to his lips and let a kiss linger there for a moment before looking up at her again.

At that, the doors to the Sept opened, and he looked back to see Margaery enter on the arm of her father. He might be a complete oaf, but even Tyrion couldn't help but smile at how proud and joyed the man looked, walking his daughter down the aisle. For the briefest of moments, Tyrion let himself daydream about doing the same for his daughter. She had red hair, no, blonde… he couldn't decide. Amusingly, he thought about suggesting to Sansa that they have one of each, and he looked up to her to see a smile, but worry behind her eyes as she watched Margaery, her friend, being led to his nephew. He couldn't blame her for the worry; it certainly wasn't misplaced. Whenever he gave away his daughter, or daughters perhaps, he prayed to the Gods it would be to a better man than Joffrey.

He watched the cloaking and hated his nephew just a touch more than usual in that moment for the ease with which he wrapped Margaery in the Lannister colors. Though he did roll his eyes at that; whose bright idea had it been for the boy to use Lannister colors rather than Baratheon? As if the rumors weren't enough, they now showed it off in front of the whole bloody Seven Kingdoms. Probably Cersei's idea, if Tyrion had to guess.

The final vows were exchanged, and the pair kissed. Grudgingly, he and Sansa pulled their hands apart to join in the applause half-heartedly.

"We have a new queen," Sansa commented dryly.

"Better her than you," was Tyrion's response, and he shuddered at the thought of how Joffrey would have treated Sansa as his wife. His hand went to her arm, and they followed the procession out of the Sept.

As Sansa and Tyrion found their way out of the crowd, they saw that Joffrey, Margaery, and the Tyrells were taking their time in moving along, soaking up the love of the small folk as they cheered for their new queen. Some even shouted out for King Joffrey, which boiled Tyrion's blood; Joffrey was the one who had made the whole city miserable, but Tyrion was the one who had taken all the blame for it as acting Hand. Shaking his head, he let it go. Soon enough, he would be in the West with Sansa where they wouldn't be revered per se, but they certainly wouldn't be shouted down. The Westermen respected and were as loyal to the Lannisters as the Northerners to the Starks, if not quite so well loved. He knew Sansa didn't believe him, as he was fairly certain she excepted him from the whole of his family, but he couldn't blame her for that really; Cersei, father, Lancel… she hardly had good experiences with any of his family save for him. But he had hope that she'd find company with his Aunt Genna, and his cousins of an age with her: Myrielle and Cerenna.

"This all really could have been me, though," Sansa said, breaking her silence. Under different circumstances, she would have said it with longing and regret, but Tyrion smiled at her tone of disgust. It made him feel better reminiscing over their less than ideal wedding day.

"Our wedding and feast might not have been as you wished, but I like to think our wedding night made up for it a bit," Tyrion suggested with a lecherous smile.

He expected a blush or a light smack on the arm, but Sansa merely smiled and nodded. "That was indeed quite an evening." Seven hells, she even gave a sigh!

Tyrion's mind raced back to that night, to her first moans and cries of pleasure, and he felt himself becoming half-hard in his breeches. As they reached their litter, there was no one around to see them get in; every eye was still on the rest of the wedding party. In the privacy, Tyrion reached across to her legs, gently pushing up her skirts to feel the skin of one of her legs. "You know, we could always reenact our wedding night, for a bit of leisure on this long, trying day?" He kept his tone light and innocent, but he knew his smile and eyes said everything he really wanted.

Sansa blushed at that. "Later. We can't, here, not in public!"

Tyrion sighed and took a gamble, crawling over to her, and pushing up her skirts a bit more. Sansa sputtered as his face approached hers, and he argued, "You could always try being quiet for once."

She smacked him lightly on the cheek for that, to which he smiled, but then his fingertips reached the beautiful, perfect juncture of her legs hidden under these damned skirts, and her head fell back with a smile as he began massaging her mound in just the way he knew she liked. Moans started to slip from her lips, and Tyrion kissed her, feeling her pleasure everywhere as it vibrated in his mouth, quivered under his touch, shook in her legs around his hips. One final gasp, and she pressed her lips to his neck as he felt her come undone under his fingertips.

Gods, he was so hard for her. He wanted to tear off her dress and ravage her, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate that with the wedding feast still to go. He put his hand at the base of her neck, and she lulled back into his grasp. He kissed her, then whispered in her ear, "Turn over, my love." Pulling back, he saw the mischievous sparkle in her eye that mirrored his own, and he moved back to give her room to turn over onto her knees for him. Once she was balanced, she started pulling up her skirts for him and Tyrion moved into place behind her, unlacing his breeches and freeing his cock. He finished pushing her skirts up out of the way, and then ran his thumb over her slit. He felt her shaking in anticipation, so warm and wet… He let out a small groan and then grabbed her hips, and pulled himself into her. Once he was in her to the hilt, he let his head fall back at the feeling of Sansa around him. He couldn't believe she'd actually done this with him. He could still hear the crowds shouting out Joffrey and Margaery's names outside, servants walking past not ten steps away, and here they were making love with no doors or walls save for the canvas of their litter between them and the world. He had always had a perverted streak, but he smiled at the thought that maybe he was wearing off on Sansa just a bit.

Slowly, he pulled back from her, and then back in, and he saw Sansa nestle her face into the crook of her elbow, trying to keep quiet. He sped up a bit, and he knew he wouldn't last long. Tyrion bent over her, kissing her back, pressing his cheek to her as he thrust inside of her. He reached his hands around to her belly, holding her, holding their child, and Sansa's hand found his, holding him there. He felt himself getting closer to his end, and one of his hands pushed back to her hips, to her womanhood, and he coaxed her. A few quiet moans escaped her, but nothing obvious. Nothing more than the grunts that sounded in his throat. At last, he felt her tightening around him, and he sped up, moving his fingers faster, thrusting his hips harder, and finally, with a high pitched moan muffled into the velvet sleeve of her dress, she clenched around him, and he felt the familiar tightening in his legs, in his balls as he let his seed go inside of his wife, continuing to thrust with her hips moving to meet his.

His head spun; he and Sansa had had some great sex, but this was definitely a contender for his favorite moment. He didn't think anything would top their wedding night, but gods was this a close second. Finally, all was still as the sounds of the crowd outside came back to them, and Sansa's legs finally stopped shaking against him. Pulling himself away from Sansa and standing upright again, he pulled a handkerchief from his doublet and held it below as he pulled himself out, catching his seed and Sansa's wetness as it followed his withdrawal.

Sansa propped herself up on her elbows and looked back at him. Her hair was still surprisingly tidy given the good fucking he'd just given her, but he was proud to see a few of her braids had frayed out. Nothing a bit of water couldn't smooth out though. He finished cleaning up, tucked his manhood away, and then helped her fix her small clothes and skirts back into place. Once they both looked presentable, he kissed her fully on the lips before exiting the tent.

The sun was harsh after their retreat, but he found Podrick with his back to him, looking into the crowd, craning his neck, obviously trying to find himself and Sansa.

"Podrick!" Tyrion called out to be heard over the noise, and the boy looked back at him.

"My lord! Forgive me, I couldn't find you. Where were you?"

"Waiting for someone to carry my pregnant wife back to the Red Keep, obviously."

"Apologies, my lord. Right away, my lord."

When he seated himself in the litter again, Sansa gave him a light shove. "You should be kinder to him."

"Hmm. Hardly anybody was kind to me, and you seem to like how I've turned out."

"And everybody was always kind to me, and you like how I've turned out," she countered, earning a chuckle from him.

"Fair enough, my lady. Fair enough." And with that, Podrick had found their carriers, and they were off and away to the wedding feast.


	18. Sansa X

_Here's the chapter you've all been waiting for. Enjoy!_

 **Chapter 18: Sansa X**

Just as Tyrion had promised, the performers were incredible. Fire breathers, contortionists, jugglers, fools, singers, acrobats, and so many others that Sansa could scarce keep track of them every way she turned. The wine flowed freely, and Tyrion took advantage of that much, at least. With the wedding festivities themselves, he seemed rather exasperated. Going over the minutiae of one day for months in advance would be tedious and take the magic from the thing, Sansa realized sadly, and she reached down to hold Tyrion's hand. At least they had made some fond memories he hadn't expected, she thought with a blush, and the smirk on his lips made it clear his mind was in the same place hers was.

When they found their seats, once again they were thankfully as far from Joffrey as they could be. Together, they watched the wedding guests take in the entertainment, the food, the views, the pavilions and fabrics and decorations. "It really is lovely, Tyrion," Sansa said. She knew most of the credit would no doubt go to Margaery and Olenna, but none of it would have been possible with her husband's work, so she made sure to give him the praise he deserved. He looked at her and smiled at that, then reached forward for a raspberry tart and munched on it happily while they took in the festivities. Joffrey and Margaery were making their rounds, greeting people before they finally made their way to the main pavilion and took their seats at the center. Not long after, most others found themselves seated, and the first courses were served.

Tyrion might have complained about the cost, and as much food as there was, Sansa was sure there would be a ridiculous amount of waste, but it all was delicious, even if she only took a bite or two of each dish to be able to enjoy the next. Singers, one after the next, came forward. It might have been nice, except it seemed as if every 2 or 3 songs was a different rendition of "The Rains of Castamere," which put Sansa off her appetite. It seemed to put Tyrion off of his as well, as he was just picking at his food now with a more gratuitous balance of wine to offset it. Sansa had never much enjoyed wine before being married to Tyrion, but moments like this, she wished she could drink. But she softly patted her belly in reassurance; she'd do what was best for the babe, for just a few more months.

Looking down the table at Margaery, she seemed to be happy. For now. Gods, Sansa hoped she knew what she was doing. Joffrey, on the other hand, seemed a bit distracted, tugging at the sleeve of his garment. Sansa furrowed her brows; she'd never noticed that tic before. But before she could watch further, Joffrey sprung to his feet and threw gold coins at the fifth performance of "The Rains of Castamere," the singers scrambled for their pay, and then they were off, bowing their way out of view.

He sat back down, then Margaery leaned over to him, and then stood again to give Margaery an introduction.

"We are so fortunate to enjoy this marvelous food and drink," she said, and she saw Tyrion's eyes roll. Sansa suppressed a chuckle; when a Lannister points out excessive spending, you know it's gone too far. "Not all among us are so lucky," she continued. "To thank the gods for bringing the recent war to a just end, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in our city."

Sansa leaned over to Tyrion. "Yes, I'm sure that was entirely Joffrey's idea," she commented dryly, and Tyrion chuckled without looking at her. Song filled the air in interlude as Joffrey and the Tyrells congratulated themselves on giving table scraps to the starving, and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She adored Margaery, but the act was a bit much.

Sansa just wanted to finish eating and leave, and she turned to Tyrion to say as much when she noticed Joffrey coming toward them. She tugged at Tyrion's sleeve, and his gaze followed hers to see his nephew coming toward them. Without courtesy, Joffrey put his hands on the back of both their chairs and leaned down between them to speak lowly to Tyrion.

"I know it was you who sent away my entertainers," he growled.

"What entertainers?" Tyrion said, his voice even, and he took a sip of wine before Joffrey smacked the cup from his hand. Wine spattered onto Tyrion's doublet, and Sansa felt droplets splash onto her. Nobody else seemed to notice, but Sansa moved back in her chair at Tyrion's glance to her that said clearly to keep out of this.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. This is my wedding feast, and you spoiled it for me. I'll not forget that."

Tyrion sighed, and Sansa could tell he was losing his patience. "Your entertainment would have spoiled the feast for everyone but you. This wedding is to symbolize unity after war—"

"This wedding is to symbolize whatever I want it to. You undermined me, and you'll pay for it. I'm removing you from the Small Council."

Tyrion snorted. "I had less than a week left on it anyway."

Sansa bit her lip; he shouldn't be so glib with Joffrey, not here, not so soon before they were meant to leave King's Landing for good. He'd had too much wine, and this had the makings of turning out as badly as their wedding feast had. Trying to avoid Joffrey's notice, Sansa reached across to lightly touch Tyrion's hand. His gaze met hers, and he gave her a small nod of understanding.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I only acted in what I believed were the Crown's best interests. As I always have," Tyrion said, and there was an undertone of threat to his voice that Sansa didn't like. She gave his hand another squeeze, but he kept his focus on Joffrey.

Sansa looked at him, and she realized he was still twitching his right wrist. Finally, Joffrey stood, and he fidgeted with his sleeve some more before returning to Margaery.

"That's not over," Tyrion sighed, reaching for a new cup of wine, but Sansa smacked him on the arm.

"If you didn't antagonize him all the time, perhaps we could get away without notice." Sansa grabbed the flagon of wine and pulled it down to her end of the table where nobody would use it.

"Antagonize?" Tyrion echoed, and he shifted in his seat to face her properly. "Do you expect me to just say what he wants with no regard to my own honor, your honor? To be a coward?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Saying what he wanted kept me alive, but it's lovely you think me a coward," she spat back at him.

"I didn't mean it like that, and you know it," Tyrion said, reaching out to her, but Sansa crossed her arms and took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment.

"We're so close to leaving this place, Tyrion," she said softly. "You put that in jeopardy by drawing attention to us. He can order us to stay, you know he can."

"My father—"

"Your father is not the king. Joffrey is." Sansa shook her head. "My father was Hand, and look how much that protected him. Do you really think your father would risk his own regard and position at Court for you, for me? He wouldn't, and you know it. So stop treating Joffrey as if he can't do anything to us, because he can."

Tyrion watched her for a moment before looking away. "I would die before I'd let anyone hurt you," he said, his voice little more than a whisper, and Sansa looked at him.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of. And I'd just prefer it didn't come to that." Tyrion met her eyes. "You're honorable. And sometimes, you remind me of my father far more than I care to admit, and it terrifies me." Sansa felt her throat close up, and tears threatened to well up. "This city isn't a place for honorable men. It's a place to say what you need to in order to stay alive and leave as soon as you can. That's what I want for us, for our baby." Sansa wrapped her arms around her belly, and Tyrion leaned over hold their child, and this time she didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry." He sounded like he meant it. "I'm not sorry for thwarting Joffrey's act, but I'm sorry for how I handled it. I'm sorry I upset you."

She looked at him, and the frown on his face showed his disappointment. Sansa leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder. It wasn't proper, but she didn't care. Tyrion found a napkin and mopped up the excess wine that Joffrey had spilled on him.

After a while, she asked the question that had been niggling at her since Joffrey had come to them. "What was Joffrey's act supposed to be?"

She felt Tyrion take a deep breath, and he didn't answer her right away. After a while, she thought maybe he was ignoring the question, but when he spoke, his voice was even. "He'd hired a group of dwarves to reenact the War of the Five Kings. There were costumes for Joffrey, for your brother, for Renly, Stannis, and Balon Greyjoy. There was… there was a wolf's head as well."

Sansa took a sharp breath in, imagining the spectacle that Tyrion was describing. "It was meant purely to mock you and me, and it would have insulted the Tyrells and anyone else who's had to switch allegiances over the course of the war, which is not a small number of the guests here today. The fallout would have been a nightmare, so I put an end to it. For us, and for political reasons. If Joffrey were smart, he'd thank me for what I did, but he's not, so it is what it is."

"Thank you," Sansa muttered, and Tyrion leaned his head on hers.

"You're welcome."

Sansa looked out at the festivities again as she lifted her head from Tyrion's shoulder and saw that Ser Dontos had started juggling, albeit poorly, in the center of the clearing.

Joffrey was still in his foul mood and shouted out, "A gold dragon to whoever knocks off my fool's hat!"

Fruit, rolls, anything at the tables that could be thrown with aim was flung at Ser Dontos. Sansa was certain the food being wasted alone was more than one gold dragon, but that obviously didn't matter to anyone. She pitied Dontos, not for the first time. She still wondered at the friends he'd meant to take her to when he offered that day in the godswood, but it didn't matter now, she supposed. Sansa looked at Joffrey again, angry at his streak to humiliate, but she was caught off guard at how red he looked, as if he had a fever. Sansa was the last person who should give a damn about his wellbeing, but it was a bit disconcerting.

"Does Joffrey look ill to you?" Sansa commented in a low voice, and Tyrion looked over. He straightened up when he saw what Sansa had noticed.

"He does." He set his jaw a moment before kissing Sansa on the cheek and getting up from his seat.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To make sure my damned nephew isn't about to keel over. I'll be back in a moment."

Sansa followed him with her gaze and saw as he went to his father and sister in the crowd, pulling them aside from where they'd been speaking with Oberyn Martell and Ellaria Sand. She could tell when Tyrion mentioned his concerns as Cersei's head snapped up and toward her son. Immediately, she began to rush forward, but at that moment, everyone's attention was drawn to the great pie that was being carted out. Margaery jumped to her feet and began an applause, and Joffrey stood as well, though Sansa noted that he really didn't look well. Where he had been red-faced, he now looked quite pale and unsteady on his feet. Sansa stood and watched as Cersei tried to get through the now standing crowd to her son, and she assumed Tyrion was behind her, though she couldn't see him.

Joffrey walked to his new sword and pulled it out with half a glance at Sansa, and she tried not to react at Joffrey's hands on a blade forged from her father's. But that was easier than usual as she noticed the sweat on his brow, despite the cool easterly breeze coming in from the Blackwater. He turned toward the pie, raised the sword over his head, and brought it down on the oversized pastry to applause as doves flew out from it. Afterward, his arms seemed to go limp, and the tip of the sword drug on the ground as Sansa saw doves' heads fall from the pie, birds in the wrong place at the wrong time of the swing.

Margaery seemed oblivious to Joffrey's condition, her attention on seeing that everyone got a slice of the pie, but finally Cersei broke through the crowd into the clearing, Tyrion, Tywin, and Grandmaester Pycelle not far behind her. Pycelle hovered back as Tywin put a hand on his arm, and Tyrion stayed at his father's side. Sansa didn't entirely understand it, but she had to admire that after every insult and hurt that his family had put him through, Tyrion was still loyal to them. A bit of resentment rose up at that, but she couldn't blame him for familial loyalty.

Cersei smiled as she closed in on Joffrey, taking his arm, and she kept a smile on her face, but she could tell that the former queen regent was asking him question after question, making sure he was well. He pulled his arm away from her, and as he did, he fell to the ground. A collective gasp ran through the crowd, and Margaery's attention finally turned from the guests to her new husband. Cersei hovered over Joffrey, and Sansa moved around to the end of the table to see better, but she didn't know what to do. She looked at Tyrion, but Tyrion was transfixed by the scene of his nephew's collapse.

A hand on her arm caused Sansa to jump, startled. It was Dontos. "My lady, we have to go."

"What?" Sansa almost laughed at the suggestion. It was so absurd, coming from nowhere.

"My lady, you'll be blamed for this. You hated the king, you have to come with me if you want to live."

Sansa pulled her arm away, but Dontos kept hold of her. "I'm not going anywhere with you, Ser. Now please, unhand me." Sansa pulled again, and Dontos's grip on her tightened. His fingers dug around her arm, and he started to pull her away from the crowd. Sansa planted her feet, looking back to Tyrion, who wasn't watching her. He didn't know what was happening.

"Please, let go of me!" Sansa said, her voice louder. She tried to pry his hand off, but he grabbed her other arm as well.

"Unhand my lady!" she heard a voice say, and she heard as a blade was drawn from a sheath. She turned round to see Podrick with a knife in hand, his gaze firmly on Dontos.

Outnumbered, Dontos let go of her, and Sansa's balance against him caused her to fall back. Thankfully, Podrick caught her before she'd fallen completely, but by the time she had calmed herself, Dontos was gone.

A scream filled the air, and Sansa, still half on the ground, Podrick's hands under her arms where he'd caught her, spun round to find the source of the noise.

It was Cersei, and Sansa could just see Joffrey through the crowd; his face was white streaked with red, and his legs and arms twitched. Pycelle was there at Joffrey's side, but he seemed to be fluttering around, unable to actually do anything to save his life.

He was dying. He was really dying. Sansa felt a sense of calm wash over her; the greatest threat to her, to Tyrion, to their child, was fading before her eyes. They would be safe.

Pycelle looked at Joffrey's arm, the one he'd been fidgeting with, and raised it up, and Sansa saw how it was swollen, the hand was twice the size it should have been, and the rest of the arm was practically bulging out of the cuff. The grandmaester took a knife to the laces and cut open the sleeve to see a wound split wide, with black racing up the veins of Joffrey's arm.

 _Poison_ , Sansa realized. _From a tainted blade_. She wondered where he'd got the cut, who had done it, but Joffrey started seizing as he hadn't before. The crowd was completely silent, and she could hear his rattling draws of breath, gasping as everyone looked on and did nothing. Her gaze strayed to Cersei, and Sansa put a hand on her belly at the look of abject grief and helplessness she saw there. She hated them both, but gods, she wouldn't wish this on any mother. To watch her child die in such a way; Sansa hugged her belly tighter, and prayed she never had to live through a thing like this.

The draws of breath became shorter and shorter, more labored, and finally, with one last twitch of his hand, they stopped altogether. The king was dead.

"A poisoned blade," Cersei's grief-strained voice rang out. "He did this," she cried out, pointing to Oberyn Martell, and the Prince of Dorne looked taken aback. Two kingsguard seized him and started to take him away, but Ellaria Sand began to attack them with her bare hands until one of them knocked her out cold with a backhanded blow. A third kingsguard picked up Ellaria, and the pair were taken away as Oberyn professed his innocence and cried out for Ellaria's wellbeing. Silence took over the gathering. Sansa looked round to Podrick who was still holding her, but like Sansa, was clearly shocked by what had happened.

"Podrick?" she prompted quietly, and he looked at her and finally helped her back to her feet. Dusting off her dress, she looked up to see Tyrion finally coming to her. Quickly, she turned to the squire. "Don't mention anything to Tyrion. Not just yet. He doesn't need to worry about us with all of this going on."

He hesitated before nodding, and Sansa sighed in relief that she could spare her husband some measure of concern.

"Sansa," Tyrion said, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Are you alright?"

She nodded. "Just shaken up, but I think everyone is."

Tyrion nodded. "Let's get you back to our chambers to rest. I'll have to leave you—my family still has to figure out just what happened—but I want you where I know you're safe."

Sansa wasn't sure just how safe she would be, with Dontos out there free, but if Tyrion was so worried, it was likely he'd leave Bronn and Podrick with her, so she wouldn't mention it just yet. Tyrion needed to focus, and Sansa had a feeling this was only just the beginning.


	19. Tyrion IX

**Chapter 19: Tyrion IX**

He was only halfway up the steps of the Tower of the Hand when he heard his sister's voice echoing down the stone corridor. As slowly as he could justify, he took his time ascending the stairs. With a deep breath, he finally knocked on the door of his father's solar, previously his solar, and Ned Stark's before that. _It never ends, does it?_ Tyrion asked himself, and the door opened, and he let himself in.

Cersei didn't notice him at first. "We should just get rid of the Martells, once and for all," she shrieked. "We've tolerated their hostility and arrogance for far too long. They never saw fit to join us in the war, and they can all die in this war they've started now. Them and the Arryns, that pompous bitch Lysa Tully."

"Oh, are we to destroy two more great houses of Westeros now?" his father asked sardonically, and Tyrion hid a smirk. He'd never tell his father as much, but he'd been thinking of the exact same quip. He poured himself a glass of wine.

"We'll burn every other house to the ground if need be until all our enemies are dealt with," Cersei said, turning to Jaime, who took her in his arms. He looked at his father; the man truly still didn't see the truth, right in front of him. Tyrion was almost jealous of that level of obliviousness.

"Cersei, we don't know for certain that it was the Martells," Tyrion said, trying his best to keep his voice level, free of blame for his sister, though she most certainly deserved every ounce of it for Oberyn Martell being in the dungeons at the moment. "You blamed him out of thin air at the wedding, and we're still recovering from the last war. We hardly want to start yet another, especially with them holding Myrcella," he reminded her.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Cersei said, her voice filled with fury and grief. "You hated him. You convinced Oberyn to do it, didn't you, you little monster!"

Cersei lunged at him, but Jaime held her back. Tyrion drained his wine and put the cup down, weighing his words carefully. "Once, I would have considered us better off without Joffrey, yes." _We still are, but I'm hardly going to say that to her face at this precise moment._ "But Cersei…" Tyrion thought of Sansa, carrying his child. "I could never take your son away from you, not now that I'm so close to meeting my own first born."

"He tried to have you killed," she spat at him. Tyrion looked at his father and brother, who looked at him in return.

"He did," Tyrion said. "He did, and I still wouldn't take him from you, Cersei."

Cersei scrambled, still trying to blame him for this in some way. "You promised me the debt would be repaid. That my joy would turn to ashes in my mouth."

Tyrion shook his head, seeing doubt in his father's face. He stepped closer to his sister and looked her square in the face. "Sansa wanted to blame me, too, after her brother and mother were killed. But Cersei, I will tell you what I told her: I am so sorry, truly sorry, for your loss. I didn't know, Cersei. I didn't do it. I swear to you, I didn't have any part in this." He hesitated, but then he reached out and took her hand. "Above all, he was my blood. I am no kinslayer, sister." She held her breath for a moment before taking her hand away and turning into Jaime again, sobbing into his shoulder. Tyrion looked back at his father, who nodded.

Tyrion let out a sigh, realizing just how closely he'd come to joining Oberyn in his cell. He poured himself another cup of wine and drained it before going to his father, who sat still as a statue in his seat. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Find money for Tommen's coronation and another royal wedding," he stated dryly, and Tyrion fought the urge to snort in front of his sobbing sister. He knew his father had no love for Joffrey—who besides Cersei had?—but truth be told, his father looked almost bored by his grandson's death. Tyrion wondered for a moment if his father, cold and calculating, had decided Tommen would be an easier king for whom to serve as Hand, but he shook his head. His father was ruthless, but that was beyond even him. At least Tyrion hoped so.

"I take it Sansa's and my departure is postponed until further notice?" he asked.

His father looked at him. "If you wouldn't mind staying until after the trial. You were the one to greet Oberyn, and the judges will need to hear witnesses in his defense."

Tyrion's brow furrowed. "You don't expect Tommen to sit in judgment on this?"

"No. Tommen will recuse himself. I will sit in judgment, along with Mace Tyrell and Ser Addam Marbrand."

"Doesn't seem a very impartial jury," Tyrion commented lightly, staring intently into the bottom of his cup.

"I don't want a war with the Dornish, nor do the Tyrells. If he's guilty, we'll have justice for Joffrey, whatever it takes to defend the Lannister name and crown. If he's innocent, we'll avoid another costly war."

Tyrion tilted his head the side. If Oberyn was found guilty, he didn't think the Dornish would see it like that, but his father had more experience with them than he had. "And Myrcella?"

Tywin hesitated. "Another reason this jury will be impartial."

For one of a very few times in Tyrion's life, his father sounded uncertain, and it set a gnawing pit in the bottom of his stomach. Sweet, innocent Myrcella. She was caught up in all of this because of him. Because he'd sent her away. Just to find out that Pycelle was the spy on his small council. At the time it had seemed a good idea, but now… now his niece's life weighed on him.

Tyrion looked at his sister. "Even if the judges are impartial, do you think the witnesses will be?" He wouldn't put it past his sister to fix the trial exactly as she wanted it. She was in pain, yes, but that was when people could be at their most dangerous, and he was no fool as to underestimate her.

Tywin clearly understood Tyrion's question. "I'll keep a reign on Cersei."

Tyrion snorted, but regretted it when he caught his father's scrutiny. He tried skeptical remorse. "She's a mother who just lost her firstborn and wants blood. I don't know if there's a reign strong enough to hold her."

"Myrcella's safety could be enough." He watched his father's machinations playing out in his head, and Tyrion wondered if even his father could be brave enough to dangle Myrcella's safety over Cersei to keep this trial fair. He wasn't sure he would be.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to return to my wife," Tyrion said, not looking at his father. Tywin waved his hand in dismissal, and Tyrion left, nodding to Jaime on his way out.

When he returned to his chambers, he found his wife and squire in the corner, unaware of his return.

"You have to tell him," Podrick said, an urgent tone to his voice.

Sansa shook her head. "He just lost his nephew," she replied dubiously, and Podrick rolled his eyes.

"And you know that he's as devastated by that as you are. But your safety he really does care about—"

"What about your safety?" Tyrion said, injecting himself into the conversation and making his presence known.

"Tyrion!" Sansa said, spinning to him. She opened her mouth, then hesitated, looking at Podrick who just raised his eyebrows at her.

"Tyrion, I suppose there's something you should know." She walked toward him and gestured for them to sit in their chairs as Podrick busied himself in the opposite corner to give them privacy.

Tyrion sat, his eyes searching Sansa's face for any hurt or worry, but she didn't seem troubled.

"At the wedding, just as Joffrey was poisoned," she started. "Ser Dontos tried to take me."

"Take you?" Tyrion echoed, wanting clarification.

With a sigh, Sansa pushed up the sleeve of her robe to show him where bruises were blossoming, the clear marks of a man's firm grip on his wife's arm. Tyrion felt his blood start to boil.

"Why did you keep this from me?" he said, trying not to sound angry, but as it came out, he knew he failed.

Sansa shook her head. "With everything else going on, I didn't want to worry you."

"Sansa, you are my only worry. The rest of the world can hang for all I care."

Tyrion reached out and took her arm in his, gently turning her arm to see the bruises in their entirety. "Tell me everything that happened."

Sansa sighed, and then began. "As Joffrey collapsed, Dontos grabbed my arm and told me I had to go with him. I turned away from him, but he didn't let go. He told me that I would be blamed for the murder and would die for it unless I went with him. I tried to pull away from him, but he just gripped my arm tighter and started pulling me away from the wedding party. Then, Podrick came up behind me with his knife drawn out, and only then did Dontos let me go. I fell backward, and Podrick dropped his blade I think and caught me before I fully hit the ground. By the time I came back around, Dontos was gone, and Cersei was screaming. After all that, I just… I didn't want to worry you about him."

Tyrion took a deep breath. "Sansa, did you consider he might have conspired with the murderer? That whoever he was to take you to had or was the murderer?"

Sansa hesitated. "I thought about it afterward, but he just… I saved his life. During Joffrey's nameday celebration, I saved his life. I thought that was all there was to it. He came to me a while ago and—"

"He came to you a while ago and you said nothing?" He looked at her incredulously, and Sansa's cheeks reddened under his scrutiny.

"He offered to take me to friends, and I thought he was just being kind, that he didn't understand the way things were between you and I." Sansa shook her head. "When he tried to take me today, I thought that was all, but now I think you might be right." She paused. "I was going to tell you, but if he's gone already anyway, what was the point of worrying you about me as well?"

Tyrion looked away from her. He didn't want to be the kind of man to shout at his pregnant wife but gods he couldn't believe she wouldn't tell him something like this. That he'd _missed_ something like this.

He looked at his squire in the corner. "Podrick," he called out, and the boy came to him. " _Thank you_. I promise you, I'll reward you for saving my wife, but for now, I need you to go to my father and relay all that Lady Sansa's said of her interactions with Ser Dontos. The man needs to be found as soon as possible. Also request that additional guards be set outside our chambers and Tommen's. If there's at least two people involved in this, we don't know how many more there may be and what more they want."

"Yes, my lord." Podrick left. Tyrion turned back to Sansa, who was sitting with her eyes downcast, one hand passing lightly over the bruises on her other arm.

"I know you're angry with me."

"I am," Tyrion said. No point in denying it.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away. Everything just happened so fast, I didn't know what to do, and you already looked so shaken up." Sansa looked at him, a frown on her lips. "I just want things to be simple, and I know they aren't."

Tyrion closed his eyes for a moment as he took a deep breath. "It's alright, Sansa. Just promise me you won't keep anything else from me. Not where your safety is concerned."

"I promise."

Tyrion rose from his chair and stood in front of Sansa, who leaned forward to rest her forehead on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and tangled his hands in her hair as her hands found their way to his hips. _I could have lost her today_ , he thought, and he buried his face in her hair, the thought terrifying to him. But that would never come to pass. Not today, not ever.


End file.
